The Caged Bird Sings
by Anesther
Summary: I'm just something dark and broken; I'm glass shards that embed into themselves. For even the laughter around me, silent and sharpened, are nothing compared to the damage I can inflict onto myself. Dark. Complete - Sept. 7, 2012; UPDATED: Oct. 12, 2013
1. Cuckoo

**AN: In honor of the upcoming tale, The Hunger Games, a series that has, literally, changed my perception. Thank you Suzanne Collins! I can't wait to see your vision come to life.**

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><p><strong>Because I remember, I despair. Because I remember, I have the duty to reject despair. - Elie Wiesel<strong>

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><p><em>The Caged Bird Sings<em>

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><p><em>Cuckoo<em>

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><p>I'm laying on my back, looking up into the sky, the fake blue that hides the true expanse. I want so badly to fly away into something familiar but I can't. And then the shadow is blocking my view, and I want to see even the lie that I'm trapped in—it's better than seeing his face: a murderer of children, of Peeta.<p>

But in the end, I know I'm no better…

I'm looking at nothing now, I've closed my eyes and when I open them he's looming so close to me, I smell the sweat and blood. The sky looking into mine is different—it's colder than life, and I meet his gaze calmly, despite the vapidity of my heart.

I don't trust myself to goad him on. My voice may crack. I hate him; hate him so much I can taste it.

He's rising now, glowering over me, a spear poised above my chest.

He turns around in the open space, leaving my confused and addresses all of Panem, "I will be your victor!"

There are shouts of assent, I hear them pounding into my aching bones and weary mind. He's _gloating_…! Fine, let him, if it'll mean I'll have a few moments of peace before joining my father. I wonder if I'll finally hear him sing…

"Victors are allowed many things," he continues, hoarse from no water, drunk on power, "But I am making a request. My district will have food. I want the Girl on Fire."

My body is ignited by rage as my blood chills, immobile and lost.

"Cato, this is not usually allowed." rings the voice of President Snow.

"I understand that," says Peeta's killer, "But I'm only asking for her."

There's silence that stretches to eternity.

President Snow agrees.

And I see the malicious grin that says this will be far worse than any death.


	2. Woodpecker

**AN: Thanks to cherryblossoms101, WerCub, xMarvelousMarvelx, an anon reviewer, DareTheBandit, Aquarius4, Team-PeetaFOREVER, MISSxMELON, because i lovee you, and anyone else who are anonymous! I'll do my best.**

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><p><em>Woodpecker<em>**  
><strong>

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><p>I'm scrubbed and patched up against my will. I had attempted to claw my fingers into the faces of whoever came at me, but he used my stylists against me in the end—because of their idiotic naïveté, I couldn't hurt them. My skin feels raw and new, pink and regaining color. The sun that is peeking through the blinds is so beautiful and ironic I want to cry. Walking towards the window, I look out upon the Capitol, seeing its opulence and majesty makes me sick because its grandeur is a lie like everything else.<p>

I hear the door opening and I turn around, a few more maids coming into my room to tidy the space that is already immaculate. I have no appetite. I'm desperate to see Cinna, even Haymitch would be welcoming but there's been no sign of them. Aside from the primped up dolls that enter my room, I'm the only living thing here. But I don't feel like I'm alive.

The night falls, the sun saying goodbye and I'm told to come to dinner. I refuse, despite the protesting of my body. Nourishment would be smart, but I've thought about all the possibilities of escape and it doesn't seem as though it'll happen any time soon.

So I sit in the darkness.

I'm not expecting him to enter, tall and menacing in the gloom. At the same time, however, I did. He reminds me of predators back home—the kind that play with their food before eating them. The way Buttercup taunts rats before ending it all. I don't know if the cringe is from comparing Buttercup to him, or him to my sister's pet. My nerves are on end, the hair on the back of my neck rising. I can't make sense of anything so I put all the rampant thoughts aside, blaming everything. He stares at me, I'm tempted to stare at him back but the cold stone settled within the pit of my stomach is cramping too tightly.

"You're the Girl on Fire." He states, disdain coating his words.

I say nothing, not trusting my voice. I hate him—he killed Peeta, murdered him ruthlessly. The blood in me is cold, I can barely breathe. Staring up into this cold calculating face… it's almost too much. Eyes that are too blue, too hardened, glaciers that pierce my very being are continuing to look right into me.

"Not much to look at," he says very calmly, "But you'll do."

It doesn't take long to figure out what this means—so many things rush through my head as his mouth covers mine: cries, screams, blood and berries, and gentle kisses and rough bruises; trust and family, deception and defeat, everything is wrong, it's been wrong since my father died and it's only gotten worse. I wonder why no one hears me—but no one has ever heard me.

By the end, naked and vulnerable and hollow, I'm no longer anything—not Katniss Everdeen, sister, friend and daughter; not the Girl on Fire, a spectacle meant to impress and save; not even a human being, filled with worth and belonging, loved and meant to love.

I'm just something dark and broken; I'm glass shards that embed into themselves. For even the laughter around me, silent and sharpened, are nothing compared to the damage I can inflict onto myself.


	3. Curlew

**AN: A deep, pleasantly surprised thank you to: Dra9onf7yz, micmic022, Team-PeetaFOREVER, SergeantPixie, Peaches, chevybabe11, TheEvilPeaches, anon, TammLynn, SpecialCircumstances999, Ladyjaxs999, icetenten, Lila371, JustBella, RandomReader15, texasberry87, TheEviLSurgeon, inkspire, randommonks, STF-C, rubberband11, GirlWithTheMockingjayTattoo, and previous and anonymous reviewers! I'll continue to do my best.**

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><p><em>Curlew<em>

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><p>The bed beside me is empty when I open my eyes, but there's this vast nothingness inside me that makes the space of the bed look miniscule. I could not sleep, not with his very presence radiating heat and tremors. I know he didn't sleep either, he was gloating the entire night. He never spoke to me—he only laughed, so painstakingly soft that it grated my ears to listen, a lover's chuckle, and made harsh sounds. He <em>thrived<em> on my pain.

I'm shivering, thinking of those hard, terrible things—I've been lied to, I've been disappointed, I've been abandoned, I've been hurt, I've been bereaved before; but I've never been _violated_. The adamant movements of his mouth on mine were too much, teeth biting into my skin—being eaten alive, a cannibal's feast—with his body pushing into mine. There was so much horrible, excruciating pain...! I was on fire and no one was coming to throw water onto me, to pull me out of the inferno I volunteered to enter into. Fire… I'm burned, scathed on many levels, and yet the fire has never felt colder.

I'm shuddering, feeling filth coat my skin, where his fingers and tongue touched, and each part of me is marred with something unseen and disgusting. I want to wash it away, but I can't find the strength to move. I want to be clean, but I know it won't fix anything—I'm soiled; miner's hands have a higher chance of becoming cleaner than I.

So I stay on the bed, torn between wanting to wash myself of the body that invaded me and attempting to flee. I don't know how, but I want to…. I'm curled up in a fetal position, feeling numb and lost. I shut my eyes, and he's there, naked and powerful, an awful god of war sent to destroy me from the inside out. I want to move, to remind myself I can, for it is so much effort even blinking. There's an awful ache between my legs and when I look down, there's blood, dark on my skin…

I'm puking onto the floor, my nerves snapping—despite eating nothing for days, things do come out, and it's blood, the coppery taste filling my mouth and it reminds me of how he would bite my tongue. I retch until my throat is raw, sticky within from my own lifeblood. The floor of the room has never looked more fascinating, with blood staining it, making it unclean…

My eyelids grow heavy, fingers shaking, fumbling to grasp the sheet to hide from the silent walls. The fatigue from the Games, of no food, of being touch against my will, all hit me and I find myself crying. Inside. I can't cry outside. I won't allow myself to cry. I can't. I've lost all feeling.

And suddenly it's night—it barely feels like the hours have passed.

The door creaks and my body is instantly alert, heartbeat frantic, my breath shallow. I don't know what comes over me but I find myself attempting to run—the desperation that fills me is so intense that I cannot help the overtaking of it in my legs, finding the will to finally stand, to move, to take flight and yet he's just as fast, faster, and he's pushing me back onto the bed. I'm pinned, his knees resting heavily on my wrists, bruising the skin. I rage, thrash, and his body is crushing onto my chest until I can barely breathe.

The mouth upon mine is horrid, and it's more frightening to know that he doesn't taste of alcohol—that he's not impaired because of spirits. He's like this because it's how he is, and it causes me to fight harder. I'm still in the Games, I'm still going to make it out alive—for the people I remember are far away, waiting for me… the alive and the dead.

He is laughing above me as I struggle, manic and brutal.

It feels infinite, having him impale my very being, over and over. The pain between my legs spreads, nails raking into the skin of my back, and I feel the bruises forming of where his fists pound into my frame. His fingers dig into my face as he fiercely ravages my mouth.

Something in me snaps. I bite down on his tongue.

He stares; smirks, "You little bitch,"

He instantly makes it clear that retaliation won't sit well with him, a blow to my face causing my mind to reel and spin, lights popping behind my lids, and I'm falling fast into black and it frightens me—because I won't be able to know what he does to me…. And I can't decide if it's better to know or not to know…


	4. Grackle

**AN: Thanks to: Harrypotterlover44, touchmyhobbit, lwebb, Danyelle616TWI, August Dawn, Kami-SamanoShukusen, TheBlackMagicRose, darkangel590, kanjimaru67, katyha, KimboLee Cullen, Miniwheat, BuleSkies1730, IfLooksCouldKill13, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, chevybabe11, RandomReader15, learn to steer by the stars, GirlWithTheMockingjayTattoo, Dra9onf7yz, anyone who reviewed/added earlier and anonymous!**

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><p><em>Grackle<em>

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><p>Water is running down my face, seeping into my hair, trickling all about me. The scent of marigolds and daisies fill my nostrils, and I'm thrust back to the forest, running, arms outstretched, and the tips of my fingers feeling the rough, familiar bark of wood; Gale calls, Prim smiles, my father sings…<p>

The water is shut off and the cold returns upon my skin for an instant before I feel heat on my skin, drying it before lotion comes and my hair is combed until it shines. The girl and boy next to me look on appreciatively, dipping their heads to me in acknowledgement and it's so hard not to hate them. Do they know what's going on? Don't they know humans shouldn't abuse other humans?

Their faces tell me no. And if I told them, they may inform him and he'll know. It is best to remain low and give no indication of feeling whatsoever. I look into the mirror, looking healthier than I have in weeks but my skin continues to crawl, the searing, twisted memory of him all on me. I shudder.

They come forward, handing me a robe to wear and I enter back into the torture chamber, looking at the bed, white and clean, not knowing my blood's been spilled on it countless times. It's filthy, and it doesn't know it.

It's like me. But I know I'm filthy.

So I sit, trying to forget the touch of his hands—trailing slime that burns into my flesh, acidic.

I'm alone, so I allow myself to curl up into a ball, wishing I can be far from here, wishing I was back home, holding Prim close, sitting in my scruffy meadow that's perfect, with my best friend next to me.

I miss the sun. I can't figure out how to work the buttons to open the blinds, but a part of me wonders if he purposefully made sure it didn't work for me—to keep me in the dark, to keep me from looking at something that reminds me hope is out there somewhere, there are people who want me home, and they'll try until they die to get me back.

At least that's what the child in me wishes for… but then I remember: what inner child do I have left?

I'm thrust back into black, choking on black dust, listening to the men that are trapped inside, trying to climb their way out of darkness that stains their arthritic hands, gags their throats, the very thing they gave their lives for killing them off one by one—

"Do you need anything?"

I turn around, astounded to see an actual human being. And the desperation in me is kicking into full gear again and I'm running towards the door. The face of the young girl is shocked and she immediately tries to close the door to prevent me from escaping but my fist connects with her jaw, ignoring the shockwave of pain that trails up to my shoulder, having had no strength for days.

And this is a problem, because I'm weak, and the corners of my eyes are bleary but I'm running, the hallway pristine, a red carpet adorning the floor, a long red serpent that hisses, "You can make it, you can make it..." but it's lying—I'm tackled to the ground and a scream is wrenched from my throat, agony and wrath reverberating through my very being.

I'm held up, hands grappling my arms tightly, and I look through my hair to see more men coming to take me back to my fancy prison cell. He's there in an instant, and I can't help the glare that leaks out from my eyes. But he's not looking at me; his face is furious, staring at the girl with open hostility, "What the hell were you doing?"

"I-I'm sorry!" she squeaks, "I thought… I thought she might, uh, n-need something."

And without the slightest flicker of remorse, the back of his hand is connecting with her blue-tinged cheek. He stands above her, and she stares up at him, looking at him with such fear that I suddenly find my voice, "You leave her alone! She hadn't meant to let me out!"

He turns to me, a flicker of surprise there for a second and it's gone, faster than lighting strikes.

I'm surprised myself that I said anything. I drew his attention to me. The cold feeling in my stomach returns quickly, dropping heavily into the pit, drowning me in the fear I don't want to feel but it's there, tangling me in silver fingers, caressing me and it reminds me of him—how he enjoys my fear; so I increase my glare to counter his gaze.

Within, I know he doesn't buy it; because he's grinning.

"Take her back," he says, "I'll deal with her later."

So he does.

And it's not what I expected.

He murmured to me with such tenderness it frightened me, touching my cheeks softly, taking wisps of my hair and twining them about his fingers till they curled around his digits without his aid. And that image is burned into me, reminding me that I belong to him now, that all he has to do is move those hands, speak with his voice, and remind me that, in every tangible way, he owns me. I belong to him in a way I never thought I could be possessed.

He didn't force me onto the bed. He didn't do anything other than take my face and place kisses on it, kisses that made bile rise into my throat and ice slide down my spine. I didn't understand, I couldn't comprehend—he wasn't making me do anything. He treated me differently, murmuring how brave I was to stick up for her and then he left, my skin remembering every movement his lips made, and he turned, giving me a smile and locked the door.

It hit me then: he was torturing me, the deadliest, most frightening way possible. He reminded me of humanity. He reminded me that touch isn't a curse. He reminded me of the compassion and forgiveness I desired so badly to receive and give. He reminded me I'm weak.

And that, to me, is worse than the rapes.


	5. Chicken

**Thanks to: ForAslan, KakaSaku Chan, Buddy Kenneth, Team-PeetaFOREVER, Dra9onf7yz, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, dudeyoustinkxD, Wolfwifey0611, Pezzy666333, midnight blue08, TheEvilPeaches, chuck9828, ShiraSakura, ..Attic, sports7, chevybabe11, peanutbutterQueen, swimr2410, bookluver10145679,** **cinammin dough, Tayler Snape13, Tenma94, peppermintmeg, sw33tangel357, ilypeeta, tsukinohikari-hime, those who added/reviewed before and anon!**

**Note: I'm on break now but I'm going to be out of town two, three days at most and I've been given papers to write, things to study. (Why's it a break if there's work involved?) But, hopefully, there's Wi-Fi where I'm at so I can still update.**

**Note Two: There is but, sorry, this had to be rushed so my thought process was jumbled a little. I'll touch it up later if I decide I hate it a lot. XD**

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><p><em>Chicken<em>

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><p>Rape.<p>

I've given these actions its proper name: rape.

I know what it is. I know it's horrible, violent pain. Back home, even if it _was_ a private affair, I doubt that such things were going on, even a little. I am not naïve. After these endless days and nights that blur into one another, I know I'm not. But we're such a small community, and in the end, all we have is one another. Perhaps I'm trying to keep my home intact, think of it as a more beautiful, peaceful place in the midst of all this, but it is fine with me. My home will always be better.

He never comes to me in the morning, and it's good for me. It gives me a chance to recuperate from every horrible emotion he makes me feel. He returned later that night and had his way with me, back to sounds of ragged breathing and my trying to crawl away fast only to be dragged back by my hair, my legs being parted and terrible pain shooting through my very core, rougher than sandpaper grating bare, bleeding flesh.

I look around the interior of the room, still white and clean. It frightens me, the walls that don't remind me of home and pine, the lack of human interaction, the scent of my blood and his sweat and our cries—

No. Not our cries; my sobs, his laughter.

I'm nothing like him, he's nothing like me.

We are not one being, like I've been told man and woman should be.

This is a violation of something that's supposed to be sacred. Something treasured.

I told myself I would never have kids and I meant it when I told Gale that day that feels so long ago in the past of another person's life. I don't hate children. I love children, how precious they are and how lively they are. But children mean heartbreak too—watching your little ones, that you've nurtured and raised, taught how to speak, taught how to be decent people, watching those same faces be called to slaughter and there's nothing you can do but break inside and when they die in the Games… the pain is almost unbearable. I knew about a woman who had mourned for an entire month before killing herself. I'd find her staring out the window, dead in her eyes, shattered. They found her body lying in the runoff for sewage and waste, a filthy knife still tightly wound within her bony ashen fingers.

That's how I knew I would feel, maybe even do, if I lost Prim. It hadn't occurred to me until her name was called that just because I declared I would never bear children, didn't mean I wouldn't be attached to someone like a child, like a daughter to me. Prim is my child. But I had the opportunity, the possibility, and the hope, which most parents never have: to give up their lives for their children.

Even now, in the darkness of barren light and cruelty, I don't regret taking her place, saving her from emotional and psychological scars. And the voice that whispers, on occasion, how I should never have gone after her, I destroy it until its dust—there's nothing I wouldn't do for Prim. Nothing; I'd give her the world.

She's not just my sister, she is my daughter…

…and something strikes me now, something so horrible I can't fathom it.

Bearing the child of a killer, a murderer…

The voice speaks.

I crush it… after listening about my sacrifice. It was worth it for her, I'm sure of it.

…is it?


	6. Peacock

**AN: Thanks to: Dra9onf7yz, gaeaapril07, londoneyedgirl, jshermann028, fayexdancer, Chibianime91, Just Smoke And Mirrors, reisa223, touchmyhobbit, Alexa, , anyone who's added/reviewed beforehand and my anon who are following still.**

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><p><em>Peacock<em>

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><p>After he buttoned his shirt, he told me to get ready.<p>

My heartbeat is still pounding wildly, even after watching him leave an eternity ago. I'm still curled up within the sheets, smelling the stale sweat and the awful heat of his body is finally leaving the bed. Anxiety is filling inside me, to the brim with dread. I don't know what he means. What does he want me to get ready for?

Thoughts cumulate within my mind, remembering past terrors, our bodies tense, my stance ready to flee to the door, freedom, and his hands holding arsenal that hurts, glinting in moonlight—

A knock on the door jars me from memory, a scream in my throat, dying, ready to release itself.

It's the girl again, accompanied this time by four men.

"It's time for you to get ready to go,"

I stare at her, not comprehending. Go where?

There's a lack of spontaneity, replaced by knowledge and fear. "To go home,"

Home… _Home!_ There's bubbles of delight I forgot existed surfacing upon my very skin, yet another part of me is weeping, why's it weeping? There's nothing wrong with home—

…Wait.

"_My_ home?"

"Our Champion's home, of course,"

Of course.

It was too good to be true, too good to be true that I'd be leaving this hellhole and going home and being with Prim, Gale, my mother, even Madge.

"…Would you like some help?" the girl asks, nervously, eying me warily. The four men behind her stand taller, to remind me they are there to restrain me if need be. I shake my head.

"You should get ready, then," she tells me, "He's almost ready to depart,"

I don't shower. I want to smell as revolting as possible.

I'd forgotten I was still in the Capitol. Moving is something I've forgotten too. My legs crack and stretch from the days of no mobility and painful postures. I walk in silence, the four men from before on every side of me. We walk outside into bright daylight, the sun so intense my eyes instantaneously shut to block out the rays. The warmth of it is unbelievable. I cry behind my lids, blaming it on the light. The walk is incredibly quick, and I'm back inside four closed walls. Because District 2 is nearby compared to my home, we'll be there in less than a couple of hours.

I sit in the smallest compartment, curling into myself to disappear.

The door slides open; there's a rustle of movement.

It's him. I know it is because of the silent way he moves. My arms wrap tighter around my shoulders.

His voice makes me jump, "It's good to be leaving."

He breathes in quietly, letting out a huge sigh. I continue keeping my head down.

We don't say anything. I remain in my fetal position, waiting for him to spring and force himself against me in this tight space. The sound of his breathing makes mine shallow, heartbeat in my throat. I dare to look up, peeking above my forearms.

He's staring out the window, my sunlight touching his face. To the Capitol, even to women of Districts, he's handsome, powerful, and ruthless: perfect. To me, he is those things. That's what frightens me—that he's gotten the entire world wrapped around his fingers, toying with it, and that makes him hideous to me, because he's capable of manipulation and it bothers him little.

He turns to look at me. My head locks to move down but I will myself to keep his gaze. The sun in his hair makes it shine, dazzles sky blue gems and burns bronze skin. He's a god to all; a demon to me.

The train rests to a smooth halt; his lips slide across mine even smoother; my hatred is the smoothest transition of all because it's always there.

"Girl on Fire," he murmurs against my skin. I attempt to pull away, forgetting his hand that always rests on the nape of my neck to keep me in place. Right there, it flickers. The look he always gets before he takes me. My body tenses, the coil in my stomach tighter than promises. He doesn't do anything; he leaves, leaving me shaking.

From outside, I hear cheering and anger floods inside me. I slide forward, and the sight that greets me pains me so much, I fall onto my knees.

He's waving to the crowd, all smiles and victory. Golden spun spikes, sunlight glinting on them, and eyes are bluer because of the endless sky, reminding me of a distant train where another boy stood, waving to the people, all smiles and grace. This contrast and similarity rocks me, leaving me gasping on the ground.

He turns, smiling at me, vanity and wrath in his eyes.

So I tackle him, plummeting down onto hard ground. Because if I'm going to be a prisoner here, I'll do what I can to make him suffer with me—two birds down with one stone. It's a noble suicide.


	7. Wren

**AN: Thanks to: , BeautifulDamon, Nina, KookaburraBot, Darth Lumiya Skywalker, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, TheEvilPeaches, kaminariinazuma, cabooseblueteam, once and future, MidnightHowl89, Kitcat1234, londoneyedgirl, assylakauk, Dra9onf7yz, anyone who's added/reviewed beforehand and my anon who are following still.**

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><p><em>Wren<em>

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><p>I'm hauled into a bedchamber that's too massive for one individual. I don't bother trying to make an escape—the door is shut too quickly and the sound of the lock taking place is louder than breathing.<p>

Instead, I walk to the window that's still open. Relief wells inside me as I run towards it. It's only a slit, but the fresh warm air is wonderful, and I inhale deep long breaths. I hear a commotion down below, and I vaguely make it out but, even after only seeing him in the deadly black of nights, I know it's him, pacing back and forth. Even from this huge distance, he reminds me of an animal, moving in agitated strides.

There're people down below that he's speaking with. They look to be his parents. My captor's parents…

Do they know about me? They must. The entirety of District 2 and perhaps even the whole of Panem witnessed my pushing him right off the train, down onto gravel and the shock that had spread across his face brought the most sublime joy, and he saw it on my face, that I wasn't going to give up.

The death that flashed in his eyes quickly suffocated it, for that one stare put me back in a position of prey.

I can hear him angrily shouting, right at the top of his lungs. A part of me is glad to have humiliated him but another part of me is recalling the brutality and strength that he can unleash on me in less than a blink. His hands are deadly, and they make me fear him.

I recline in one of the chairs, watching the sunset, a beautiful painting that cannot ever be truly replicated twice—each sunset has its variety of bright oranges, brilliant yellows, and splendid violets. I wonder if Prim is watching this sunset too, if Gale is.

The door opens and my body tenses, but I don't say anything, don't move. The whole ordeal goes by faster if I don't struggle too much; sometimes.

He comes forward; I hear every footfall, quiet on the hard tile. I wonder for how long he had been training to be a contender in the Games. I don't wonder long, because I could care less about his past, about him in general.

He stands beside my chair. I continue to stare out at the landscape.

He's so still I wonder if he's become frozen. Not that it would surprise me—he's completely impenetrable to human emotions, he's a statue all the time. Incapable of compassion and sympathy.

So that's why he surprises me when he kneels down, placing a hand on my knee, giving it a gentle, firm squeeze. His mouth is on mine and his tongue slowly darts past my teeth, sliding around inside; a moan that softly erupts from his throat escapes into my mouth, swallowing me as I swallow it. I don't notice his hands sliding underneath my shirt until one of them is cupping my left breast, and the feeling, the very sight of it is so surreal that I can only stay immovable, afraid of what will happen if I do move but I'm also horribly frightened of what he's doing to me now. I'm frightfully aware of every miniscule touch, a hand roving down to my right thigh, a finger kneading the skin, and there's a different heat pooling inside me, another flame that burns hotter than melting stars and _I don't want this_—!

"_No!_"

I'm far from him now, gripping the bedpost for support, looking at him, my palm stinging from the slap I gave. I'm horrified of everything about him, how he can be the most vile, cruel human being I've known and how he can come into my prison cell and cause such stirrings of my body. I may be human, but my body is responsive because it's a body, with no conscious thought without my mind and thoughts guiding it. I hate my body for how it reacts, for not having willpower to reject things that are and feel soft and right. After this lifetime of hurt and pain, it cannot, obviously, tell apart what's good pain and bad pain, from good or bad people.

I'd rather die than let him do anything of whatever sort of action; good or bad.

I watch as he brushes his cheek, hot red even in the dim light of moon and star dust. There's literal astonishment there but agitation and ire. He looks up at me, and his voice is a hiss, reminding me that he will always be something deadly, a viper in biting into my skin, poison in my life, "Do you have any idea what you did today?"

I stay quiet. I know what I did and I'm glad. Maybe if I make him mad enough, he'll kill me. I say then, "Aside from destroy your image, no I don't see what else I could've done to make you angry with me."

This sets him off and he flips over the chair, clashing onto the ground with a loud clatter, a thunderclap in the darkness without the light and scent of smoldering fire. Good. He'll kill me and this can all end. I'm sick of it all, I don't want to be here, I want to be resting, I'm tired and I want to go home, where my father is and he can sing all the shadows away…

He's near me in an instant, his face barely a hairsbreadth from mine, all shallow, violent gasps. It's scary.

Hands are clasping the sides of my face, nails digging into my scalp. "You think you're high and mighty, don't you?"

"You seem to think so," I return, having the audacity to roll my eyes and even cross my arms.

The blow to the side of my head is so strong that I'm seeing lights and darkness and dreams and nightmares—it's bloody, it's watery. His face is filled with teeth and he bites into me, tearing into my skin, and the next he's lapping up my life, tongue darting, fingers between my thighs, pleasurable knives that make me squirm and my body is another betrayer.

His fingers are digging into the sides of my face, bruising the skin, and his mouth is on me again, rougher than just a moment ago, and his hand is sliding down, trespassing my body, all tongue and pressure and rawness. But when he enters into me, painfully hard and fast, it's not as bad because of how my body responded earlier.

He knows this because I didn't scream as loud.

He remedies that immediately.


	8. Finch

**AN: Thanks to: londoneyedgirl, once and future, abarras13, xmmara, chevybabe11, EnchantedDaydream, i'mnotBambi, dancexallxnight, anyone who's added/reviewed beforehand and my anon who are following still. Oh, also, for some reason, FF is deleting some of your names when I upload it-I've noticed it a chapter or two ago and it's pissing me off. Gonna see why.**

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><p><em>Finch<em>

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><p>He alternates every other visit. He's harsh, critical, nothing but acid and embers and the other times he's soft, letting out gentle murmurs and touching delicately, glass petals. In the end, he always gets what he wants—quickly, without emotion, and with sadistic glee. It's the beginnings that are always different.<p>

I don't know what he's doing to me, what his strategy is and I'm weary of attempting to figure it out during the day. It's not hard to guess some of it: the responses of my body, no matter what, will always be under the mercy of this horrible individual, so he'll torture me both ways—where there's clawing and gnashing of teeth and where he breathes out near silent sounds, kissing me all over with slow, agonizing touches.

The intensity of both spectrums causes me to retreat during the day, curled up in large amounts of snowy down, where my own mind alternates, thinking of how to kill him and thinking of how to keep him next to me at all times. He's constantly in my thoughts. When I fall asleep, he's there, holding bloody, awful things, from weapons to limbs, wearing sweet smiles as he says something incomprehensible, babbles that are caught between a creepy mixture of guttural growls and whispered moans. This is my procession of warped reality.

I find myself waking up to the sound of the door opening. I've been exhausted since captivity but I've never fallen asleep for so long before; thankfully, there were no red romances this time.

He's walking towards me, already removing articles of clothing without shame.

I catch it—the scent upon the clothing. It reminds me of home: of coal, of earth, of outside, of death.

But it's still home.

Tonight is one of the more grueling ones because he's going to take his time, curling my hair around his digits. The digits are black, from being covered in my tendrils and dust. I scoot backwards, my back against the headstand of the bed. He only inches forward to close the distance, a hand behind my neck.

The smell of his sweat and the dust brings back memories that I thought would never be associated with him—of my father, coming home, picking me up and holding me tightly. I reveled in those moments, for we were undeniably close.

I want to punch him in the face, annihilate him, for bringing back such tender recollections because they hurt, and mainly due to the fact it's him. He's nothing like my father was—a brilliant man who had a passion for living, loved those dear to him, proving time and again how capable, how honorable, how inspirational he was.

I also want to bring him closer, to keep those memories of home near me, even if it's emanating from my captor. I've lost so much; it's pathetic to whine about it. But I want to grip onto a solid reminder of home that still exists.

So I betray myself by pulling his lips onto mine, delving into the taste of earth, salt, and bittersweet memories.

I pull back, and the way he's looking at me makes my stomach churn uncomfortably because there's no malice there, nothing hinting to abuse. There's just a smile there, a different gleam.

Like he knew this would happen.

Chagrin and rage against my pathetic need for home, him, and the world, come in a blinding rush. I attack him, pinning him to the bed for a few seconds then hop off, aiming for the door. He had grabbed my ankle however, so I land headfirst upon the floor, dizzy and disoriented from all these sensations and experiences.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks me with infuriating calm, but he's angry—I see it in the furrow of his brow. I've seen it long enough to recognize the telltale signs of another psychotic rampage.

I don't answer, I only glare at him.

He sighs, "You're being difficult."

I'm being _difficult_?

Then he does something I never dreamed he'd do: he gets ready to _sleep_. Right there, on the bed.

No sex.

No rape.

Nothing; at all.

I can't help it, they leave my mouth before I can think, "You're not going to do anything?"

He groans, pulling the sheets on him, "Too tired…" he lets out a long yawn, "Working all day."

I stand there, in shock.

"Don't bother trying to escape though," he says, stretching, "I still locked the door…"

I immediately test the knob and curse aloud that he's right.

There's a chuckle resounding from the sheets, and I see him sitting up, just staring at me lazily, head cocked arrogantly. "Told you,"

This new side of him is worse than anything. The one where he acts human, treating people like they're part of the same race, like I matter…

I don't understand.

"Understand what?" he asks, and my cheeks flush. I hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I blink quickly, trying to gather my thoughts, "The— The work. Why do you have to work?"

He shrugs noncommittally, "I felt like it. Being a Victor is kind of… boring."

"Boring?" I hiss, "You call having a sex slave boring?"

He smirks at me, rising from the bed and I back into a dresser, clunking loudly into the wall.

"Why? Did you want to have sex with me tonight?"

"I want you to stop fucking with my body and head!"

The room is deadly quiet.

Is this it?

Did I push the line, snapping it?

Will he finally kill me?

He does—in more ways than one except the way I want most.


	9. Ostrich

**AN: Thanks to: ..Attic, once and future, Dra9onf7yz, May, Nichole Dole, the7dreamer, TheEvilPeaches, , londoneyedgirl, Willow101, Jawsome, Alexa, Haydenn, AlwaysthereforTaraxx, anyone who's added/reviewed beforehand and my anon who are following still.**

**I couldn't log in yesterday so, to make up, here's two chapters. Ironic it's Easter…**

**Happy Easter!**

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><p><em>Ostrich<em>

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><p>No.<p>

No.

No, no, no, no, no…!

"_No!_" I scream before bile raises into my throat, burning, liquid, putrid flames. My head is bent into the basin, tears streaming down my cheeks. I rinse my mouth with water, trying to rid the taste of acid and hot saliva and tears. There's a horrible wrenching pain inside me and I can't escape it.

I run towards the window only to find it barred from the outside, keeping me from flying, from falling, to the death that would await me below on this second story. It would take a while to bleed to death, but it would be worth it if it means escape—the escape I can't find, the escape that forever eludes me, floating into the air and I can't grasp it, no matter how hard I run, no matter how hard I cry.

The pretty mahogany desk to my right serves semi-well as my rammer, and it finds itself broken after several attempts of smashing it into the glass. The glass had shattered, reflective rainbow tears, and it clinks into a shower of stars onto the tile; but the bars outside, which I don't even remember being installed, are still there, mocking me, thick iron teeth.

Desperation seizes me with a passionate fervor and I grip a shard of glass, the edges digging into my palm, leaving rivulets on my skin, red rivers through sand, and my heart is pounding in my head, thumping so terribly loud, louder than thunder, drowning out all noise to the point that's all I hear: my heartbeat, my breathing, my crying, my screaming, my defeat—

That's why I don't hear them coming, why I realize to late that there will be sentries to guard me, and they're prying the shard out of my hands, taking away my chance of freedom, of escape, stealing it from me like they've done with everything else—they've stolen my life and now they're stealing my death!

"Calm down! Someone get—" whomever is talking doesn't finish because my nails are dragging down their face, leaving long, angry marks. The person screams more from shock than pain but it's enough of a distraction to loosen someone's grip but another individual comes out from the hallway and shoves me onto the bed, pinning my wrists back, and two others are holding down my legs. The sound of shackles rings in my ears, clinking menacingly, and I struggle further because I'd rather die, I need to run, I need to fly, I need to die—

"What's going on here?"

The voice is a boom, a terrifying tumultuous noise, unwelcome, and I manage to crane back my neck enough to see him standing in the doorway, taking in the scene with a quiet, smoldering ire. His face is indifferent, almost arrogant, but I can tell when he's angry—I've been hit by him enough times to notice; someone's neck may be broken…

"Master Cato," says the young man I struck in the face, "She was—"

"I don't need it to be explained from anyone but her. Leave us." He tells everyone, and no one dares to question his decision, filtering out the room.

He approaches me with a confidant walk, but he keeps his distance, only looking at me. I raise my head and my eyes meet his, and his seem to flicker with recognition, eyebrows slightly rising.

"You're pregnant."

I nod.

He laughs, long, low, and viciously.


	10. Stork

**AN: Second one. May edit it, don't know. FOURTH TIME UPLOADING THIS. Stupid FF.**

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><p><em>Stork<em>

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><p>I'm in the bed, thinking of these long, arduous months, feeling growth in me, feeling something alive squirming for its way out into this harsh world. In some ways, I want to keep it inside me, save its innocence from the dark domain that will eagerly gobble it up, a little bird ready to be devoured by the wolves. But I'm more fragile than any egg, and I can't keep it in me—and I don't want it in me, too. There's so much in me that I feel as though I'll burst from it all and this little thing in my belly is the breaking point.<p>

I'm laying on my back, staring up into the ceiling, white and gold, the sun peeking in a little to witness this and the pain is so awful I can't stand it.

Despite the pregnancy, he would still occasionally have sex with me, even hit me but it never went to the stomach and that was the place I always wanted him to hit—I don't want this child, it's not mine, I didn't want it, I never wanted it.

The rapes weren't as rough because of this pregnancy, which I'm slightly grateful for, but he would still come in and stay by me through the long hours of the night. The emotional abuse was enough to make up for the lack of the physical, constantly berating me, telling me I was stupid not to stab myself in the gut before people came to break up my attempts, telling me how I'm worthless, how nothing good can ever come out of me because I'm filthy.

And all of it was true.

He doesn't want this child either, I'm sure of it—the way he stares at my bulging stomach. It's an obscenity for both of us and it makes my heart coil to think like that—the fact he and I agree on this, that this child is something unwanted by the two of us. I hate him so much it inflames me from the inside out, leaving me breathless. To ensure that I won't do anything rash, he had secured nursemaids and guards within the confines of this room to keep an eye on me during the day, and during the night, he would come in and take over, watching me with acute sky colored irises.

Another contraction throws me into a memory—of him coming into the dead of night, unbinding the ropes that held my wrists to the bedposts to prevent my thrashing out for a weapon of any kind, for I had been difficult that day to my captors.

"Do they know about how you treat me?" I asked him.

He comes, dragging a chair and sits, back of it to his front so he can lean towards me. "Yes. And no,"

I looked at him in confusion, "What do you mean?"

"Some are bribed—with all the money I have now. The others don't ask because they know better."

"You're a sick bastard,"

He laughs quietly, "You threw quite a tantrum today."

"Of course I did—I'm being held here against my will and you don't expect some sort of retaliation?"

"I do, believe me I do, Girl on Fire," he says, using the moniker that destroyed my life, "But I also know that if you were compliant, they wouldn't have to restrain you. Think of the baby,"

"I am! I'm thinking about how death would be better for the two of us!" I shout, standing in rage.

He rises slowly, simply staring with that infuriating quiet. He then goes on his knees and touches my protruding belly, caressing it and even plants a chaste kiss upon it, "Mommy's being silly, isn't she?"

I had backed off, breathing hard, because of the sincerity that crept into his voice, even as he mocked me. He stayed beside me, ignoring me, and I could do nothing as he murmured affectionate words, gripping my hand to keep me in place, the other gently patting. We even felt it kick and he laughed softly, saying, "Going to be a strong one." And he took hold of my face and kissed me, working his way into my mouth, into my soul, and it frightened me.

I wasn't sure of him that night, other than he was a complete raving madman.

Pain shoots upwards into me, and my head is tossed back, body arching, tauter than bowstrings, screaming curse words, singing for relief. There's a midwife there and I ignore her for most of it, occasionally listening to the instruction of pushing and waiting.

I can't help but wonder if his family knows. I haven't seen them since that day he was arguing with them below. Do they know about how apathetic, how merciless he is? They must. They raised him to be a contender for the Games—all the Careers are raised to learn how to shed blood without the slightest remorse in order to preserve them; if this is how their son is, they must be worse, and, therefore, condone this.

I scream as another contraction makes my body tense, and I'm wishing for my sister to hold my hand, for my mother to deliver me from this excruciating time in my life.

Another cry resounds with mine, entering the world as mine die in the air.

The midwife is holding it in her arms, cleaning up the thing, and I wish she could do the same with the air, rank with sweat and blood.

She's smiling at me, "You want to see him?"

No, I don't. I want to tell her that. I want her to take it and throw it into a river, because if its father is a demon, there's no chance of gaining an ounce of compassion and humanity, living in a dark, desolate den.

She must be one of the people who don't ask, because she comes forward and places it beside me and I look into the face of one so small it breaks my heart in two. He bears my skin color, my eyes… the hair is indistinguishable, almost a pale shade of red. The color will go either way, yet I don't care. I knew that looking at the child would be the death of me because, now looking at him, I know that parting with him will hurt me. Despite his origin, it's not his fault, and he's absolutely perfect and I quietly ask him to forgive me for wishing he died.

"I was just scared for you," I whisper.

The baby only coos, staring into my face, and I nuzzle close.

The door opens and my body tenses because it's him; I'm looking dead straight at him and he walks over, looking at us.

"A healthy baby boy," says the woman.

He moves to touch the soft baby skin—

"No!" I shout, and I startle the baby, causing it to cry.

He purses his lips, "You're being ridiculous," and he shoves me back. The time it took to give birth has exhausted me and the aches between my legs vibrate through me, making me collapse.

I watch as he holds my child, his finger clasped between two tiny fists. "Very healthy… he has your eyes. You're going to be a fine Victor—I'll see to that."

I'm rushing up, the world falling apart, collapsing in on itself, and the midwife is rushing out the door with them, and he's stealing the one thing that's mine left in this dark dungeon. I slam into the now locked door, throbs overbearing my fatigued frame, and I fall onto the floor, crying and laughing—I was happy for that one fleeting moment and he stole it; I'm laughing because I'm free of the one potential thing that would, undoubtedly, bind me here—because it's a child—and I'm weeping for the little boy who will have to face evil alone.

Sleep finds me, ravages me, and I watch as a young toddler is selected to be a Tribute, crying out for a savior, and no one comes, because I'm buried alive beneath his feet, forgotten and useless.


	11. Nightjar

**AN: Thanks to: the7dreamer, ..Attic, once and future, poseidon'sdaughter22, Miniwheat, londoneyedgirl, Teisha Ayumi, chevybabe11, Blasphemi, mm0101, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, Willow101, Dra9onf7yz, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, cutie2boot4u, hunnybee16, SaraSyco, Fleeing Dawn, confused-Luna, anyone who's added/reviewed beforehand and my anon who are following still.**

****Quick little note: Cato's so complicated, ne? Sick jerk. -laughs- All right, so there have been questions as to what will happen... Well, I can't say really. I have a direction and a possible ending but I'm filling out the middle. Be patient with me, please and thank you. Your comments always make me smile and since this is a heavy topic, I try my hardest and will continue to do so. Thanks, lovelies! *heartsandhugs*****

**P.S. I still don't know why not all my reviewers and adders are coming up. Saphira Flametongue, Fire in the Attic aren't showing up unless the punctuations are gone—I'll figure out why darlings!**

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><p><em>Nightjar<em>

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><p>I'm here. In the dark. There's no sunlight. There's no warmth.<p>

I'm here. In the light. There's no shadow. There's no chill.

I'm home, watching Prim cook dinner, a capable woman now, sixteen and slender and beautiful. My mother sits in a chair opposite me, watching my face. She takes my hand, I don't respond immediately until Prim squeezes my shoulder. They're so alike: beautiful, graceful, and forlorn, eerie; and in unison, they whisper in voices not their own, snake hisses and wolf growls, "He's in strong hands…" reminding me that I've failed to pull my baby from those stained hands.

I wake up with a start, a scream lodged in my throat and it comes out in a harsh whine.

I turn to look at my left and he's there, watching me. The scream comes out full force, and I'm backing away into the headboard, pulling the sheets around me, like they've ever been of help to me before.

"Hold still," he tells me, coming forward, "You're catching a fever."

I jerk violently when his hand comes to touch my forehead, wet and soft. I open an eye and see the washcloth near my face; his own only inches from mine. I pull away, the heat and cold inescapable, intertwining into my veins and leaving me breathless and icy.

"You should lie back down," he tells me.

I don't answer. I don't lay down either.

"How do you expect to get better if you don't do as you're told?" It's a question but it comes out a statement. He has nothing in his eyes, no feeling in his voice—he's only saying things as he sees them—as reserved and uncaring as ever; just another enigma produced by the Capitol that I'll never be able to understand.

"Why do you care?"

He glances at me, "The wet nurse isn't enough. But I won't allow the child near you when you're ill,"

"My child has a wet nurse?" I hiss, envious of the woman who is bonding with my child, holding him near.

"The child can't be in your care—you're sick right now, and it doesn't help that you're very dangerous and unstable—"

The words hit me; jar me so far back that it leaves me dizzy, the room whirling in whites and blacks, reds and silvers. "I'm dangerous and unstable!" I shout, rising to my knees, aware of my naked body but the modesty isn't there, replaced by a fuming desire to watch him burn, "You are no one to talk to me about instability—!"

"Katniss, calm down—"

My hand finds his face, "Don't you ever say my name—ever!"

I've made him angry. It shows in the set of his lips, the furrowing of his brows. "It's your name isn't it?"

I don't want him to say it—my name is mine. Given to me by my father, who loved me very much—I was his world and he was mine, together forever, songs and melodies and life. To hear my name said from this man, this monster—who destroyed my humanity, killed the boy who saved my life, tore my newborn from my empty, heavy arms—is so painful it hurts.

I've never felt more vulnerable.

And terrible things happen when I'm vulnerable….

He leans in, trailing a finger along my jaw, calloused and cool. "And since you're mine, I can say your name as much as I want."

And it's true. He possesses every bit of me.

To emphasize this, he pushes me back, his mouth finding mine, fingers rolling downwards, bringing out different fires that smolder my heart and my mind, making me struggle to distinguish reality and illusion in the dark.

"Remember that… you're mine."

It's true. Possessing all of me…

I'm vulnerable.

Bad things happen when I'm vulnerable. It's when I'm most confused, it's when I'm most helpless, it's when I'm my most human, it's when I'm at my most suicidal.

Hatred burns as he slides into me.

Something flutters when he murmurs my name: part disgust, part loathing, and the other part I'm too frightened to voice what it is aloud.

So all I do is kiss him, because there's nothing else I can do. He lets out a moan and there's a mewl creeping out of me.

He says that he knew I'd break.

Maybe he's always been truthful—because he's right…

I've given up.

I kill myself in his arms.


	12. Rooster

**AN: Thanks to: Tally Jennifer Youngblood, ..Attic, chevybabe11, Dra9onf7yz, londoneyedgirl, sillybellasara, 7, once and future, livia1697, Willow101, touchmyhobbit, pink54345, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, SaraSyco, Charlotte232, PassingShadow, IlEaNaMtY, confused-Luna, moon shining wolf, anyone who's added/reviewed beforehand and my anon who are following still.**

**Willow101: Hi, my anon reviewer! Believe me, I didn't forget your request. I'm just waiting for the right moment to make a longer chapter. There will **_**maybe**_** be one, but it won't be until later, at a more appropriate time. Please be patient with me. *hugs***

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><p><em>Rooster<em>

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><p>I didn't plea to see my son. I didn't do anything as he walked out that door, leaving me in the shadows, my only company the sliver of moonlight, a thin claw dragging across the floor, and the misery that shrouded me, a heavy, dark curtain.<p>

Sleeping is difficult but being awake is harder. I dose for several hours, wake up, listening to nothing.

I remember things in my dreams, beautiful, horrible things, drifting in and out of consciousness—the world a part of fantasy, where fairy tales are bloodied jewels that stab my hands: the scent of my father's hunting jacket, the way my mother threads my hair into a braid, Prim's shirt sticking out; the sound of Rue's whistle, the screams of tributes in agony, the moment—frozen in time, imprinted on my whole being—when he towered over me, and he took me, claiming me before the world's cruel, uncaring eyes, and the laughter of the people who watched as I was taken from everything I knew and loved.

I hear the sound of the door creaking open and I don't even glance. I have no other visitors.

The sound of a child's gurgles, however, makes my head snap up and I look at the door in surprise. There he is my killer, and my son. My hands instinctively reach out and I'm pleasantly thrown into tears as he places the soft bundle into my arms. I hold him close to me, sniffing in the clean scent—it's been so long since I've smelled and held anything so pure.

My child squirms in my arms, writhing, and it pains me when he begins to cry, long, loud sobs. "No, wait, hey, it's all right—"

My captor comes forward and swipes my child from me, murmuring quietly into his small ear, and the demon in him seems to smooth out somewhat. My son calms down almost instantly and there's an ache in my chest, in my arms. I'm shaking from this scene—it speaks volumes to me, the fact my son trusts this beast more than me.

He'll never know me the way he knows living darkness…

To add insult to injury it seems, he says, "You scared him. The boy doesn't know you yet,"

I'm about to shriek, the pain in me rising to the burning ire that's surrounding my vision, encasing my heart, scorching my ribs because this terrible excuse for a human being is ruining everything and I can do nothing but die day by day inside from the loneliness—

And before I can scream bloody murder, my son is handed back to me.

"Here, just try again."

My boy doesn't squirm as much, only a little, and in a few minutes, he falls asleep, cradled into me. My breasts become heavy and milk stains the thin garment I'm wearing. He begins to whine and immediately, with delicate care, as though I was meant to do this, I move my shirt so he can drink. His eyes look into mine, an exact replica of stones, and I smile so widely that I laugh, lightly, the way only Prim could draw out of me.

I watch his little mouth move, the small flickers of his eyes behind his lids, listen to the occasional little snort that comes out his nose.

"He makes you smile easily,"

I don't answer. I just look at this child that's mine. But the grin he was speaking about is gone, diminished in size but it is there, in my heart, just for my baby.

"I thought you might like to see him."

Something in me stirs from the way he sounds. It's too soft; I can't trust it.

He continues to stare at us. I'm compelled to yell at him but disturbing the baby would not be good, and I can't seem to find it in me to shout. I mean… he didn't have to bring my son to me. I never asked. I just assumed he'd keep my baby from me forever.

My beautiful, handsome little boy…

"Hyacinth…"

"What?" his voice breaks my thoughts.

I look at him, squarely in the eyes, "His name."

"I've named him already."

A tiny spark in me burns my tongue, "You can call him whatever you like, but I'm not stopping from naming my son,"

There's quiet, stretching. I wait with bated breath.

"I like it."

I beam.


	13. Condor

**AN: Thanks to: the7dreamer, londoneyedgirl, once and future, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, MiSSxMELON, Dra9onf7yz, chevybabe11, A. Fire. in. the. Attic, Willow101, SlytherclawPride, HeartLikeIce, GirlsAreLikeApples, yukineko19, Saphira . Flametongue, SaraSyco, DkTvFreakVD, Affable as Ever, Anonymous, moon shining wolf, thepinkmartini, sMoShFiRe, LinetteCullen, confused-Luna, That'sClassy, those who've reviewed/added before and my anon.**

**OVER 100 REVIEWS? ;_;**

**~flies away to heaven and brings back EFFING AMAZING GIFTS**

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><p><em>Condor<em>

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><p>I wake up to find them both gone, and Peeta's standing in front of me.<p>

My heart stops, his face so healthy and glowing, body strong. The sight of him fills me with joy and dread. I don't understand the latter but my joy is enough to override it. He's here, with me, right before me, my boy with the bread.

"Peeta!" I whisper. And before I know it, I'm leaping off the bed, throwing myself into his arms, arms around his neck, my fingers digging into golden hair—

He's screaming, howling shrieks that make me immediately jump off and away from him. He looks at me, clutching his body close, staring at me with such pain and hatred that my heart cracks in two.

"Katniss, why? _Why?_"

"Peeta," I ask, horrified, what did they do to him? "What's wrong? Why what?"

"I don't understand! How could you do this—to us? To me?"

"Peeta, I don't understand!" I try to grab his shoulders, but he moves away, and suddenly he's bleeding, smelling of smolders and burned flesh.

"He _murdered_ me! And you _love his_ son?"

His name is a lash thrown from my lips, causing pain, and I reach for him as he reaches for a weapon—

I start awake, screaming, hands covering my face, my nails digging into my scalp. Peeta… Peeta wouldn't… He wouldn't say such things to me, me, of all people. He—

"What's the matter?" inquires a very familiar voice, a harsh whisper, "You'll wake up the baby!"

I glance down, surprised to find him next to me, my son tucked in the crook of his left arm.

I'm so scared of what I'd seen and heard that I find myself burrowing deeply into his chest, quivering hopelessly. I stay like that for a while, unsure of what's rampaging inside me. There's so much building inside that I wonder why I haven't filled to the brim and exploded. He's suddenly propping himself up, still clutching my son, until we're both sitting up.

He perceives me with annoyance. He groans, rubbing his temples. "What happened?"

I don't want to tell anyone about this. It's unnerving, even if it was a nightmare. I have them often, of my family starving, of Gale dying, being left behind, of my father being blown up, of all the tributes that have died. I had nightmares frequently about Peeta but in the darkest recess of my mind, something in me made sure to bind up all memories of him and stick them into that blackest corner. Thinking of him was too painful. I cared about him too much, the child who lent a hand to me when I needed it most.

The chains that shackled all memory of him must've shattered when I allowed someone new into me, the son that brought joy in hell. I look at my little Hyacinth, still dreaming, hopefully nice dreams, and then my eyes drift upwards to the beast that, despite all the pain he's caused me, gave me the most precious gift in the world.

"It's nothing,"

He stares at me before wrapping an arm about my shoulders and pulls me back down. "Good. I don't particular want to hear about it." He does a long yawn, telling me to go back to sleep because he's exhausted. I roll my eyes, irritation and wrath flooding again. Of course he'd be. He only had sex with me over and over today, tugging back my hair, thrashing into my senselessly, leaving only to check on my child.

"Unless you're not tired…" he asks, and my blood freezes, noting his tone that he's probably used on other women, believing it'll have the same result, "But you are beginning to smell. I'll have Antonia draw you a bath in the morning."

His jab does nothing to affect me; he unexpectedly gave me relief—a bath would be luxurious. Though I won't say it aloud. I do ask for my son.

His face is suddenly wary, staring at me with such intensity that it scorches me. After moments pass, each the equivalent of infinite time, he handles my son into my arms.

"Thank you," I say, immediately softened from holding him. I get less hostile with everyone when it comes to children.

He snorts, "Whatever. I have to take a piss anyway. _Someone_ had to wake me up with her screaming," He then looks over his shoulder, a smirk in place, and I'm thrown back onto the day where they were all below me in the tree, and his smile said it all, that would destroy me, "You must've been dreaming about lover boy."

My insides slow down, my soul screaming in rage but I ignore the bait, not just because he's right, but due to knowing he's looking for an excuse to take Hyacinth back. I rest my head on the pillow, watching him. His foot kicks outwards and his face scrunches, whining a little. His foot makes another kick, and the pillow used by my captor falls down onto the floor. I laugh softly; amused at the way my son sleeps. He reminds me of a fighter, born to survive, like all of us. Like a tribute…

Tears begin to streak downwards, hot and fast. I can't let that happen! It'll be twelve years until that occurs, but it's something I never want him to experience—the dread of waiting for your name to be called, the nerve-racking sounds of Capitol spawn screaming for your death, an execution for no crimes committed except through the fact that our ancestors had stupidly rebelled against a powerful, towering enigma.

My tormentor would often murmur about Peeta in my ear, and tonight was no different, but something inside me died the day I watched Peeta slowly crumble into nothing, eradicated from existence; losing Peeta was detrimental, and I had become wretchedly hollow in that aspect of my life. I would remember others, but Peeta was a subject my very spirit could not handle because thinking of his death drowns me.

The dream of Peeta was unexpected but long overdue. I had to forget he existed. He caused me so much pain as well—kind, gentle, forgiving, loving Peeta. He had so much compassion for others, a strength in character and morality that it put most people to shame. The Peeta in my nightmare is a lie, conjured from lack of seeing him and the death I'm suffering every day while in here. Peeta was too good, too wonderful, to even think of such things. He was the light I didn't have back then, the only ray of sunshine that I could find and _grasp_. Oh, Peeta…

I'm weeping, the only sounds in the room that I'm aware being my shaky intakes of air and my son's even breathing.

Then there's something stroking my hair.

"Hey," I hear him say, "I didn't mean that… Nightmares are pretty frightening, I know…"

I look up, watching him watch me. He confuses me. I hate him for it, hate him deeply, how he turns and turns and leaving me no room to catch up with his motives, but when his arms suddenly open wide, I'm so desperate to cling to something real, solid, and alive, that I hurl myself into them, relieved to just _hold on_ to _someone_, even if it's the man who kidnapped me, even if it's a viper in human form.

And in the darkest part of my mind, chained to lost dreams and promises, Peeta screams.


	14. Catbird

**AN: Thanks to: the7dreamer, chevybabe11, thepinkmartini, sMoShFiRe, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, once and future, colortheskyred, Saphira . Flametongue, Hawkins-Melody, peace. love. smile3, joy . rolo , axemama, celine-twilightadict, SaraSyco, Vamppirre, moon shining wolf, HaveYouEverHeardTheStory, Alexa, nostalgiakills, Mocking Verse, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, those who've added/reviewed before and my anon.**

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><p><em>Catbird<em>

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><p>I wince, sucking in a sharp hiss of air.<p>

"You're bleeding, again," Antonia says, cleaning up the sticky red stuff between my legs. The ointment she carefully applies feels worse than the pain and I have to wonder if the treatment is worth it. Why would it be a treatment if it causes similar discomfort to the pain it's attempting to lessen?

It hurts, a burning sensation that prickles my nerves, but she's quick and thorough. Soon, she's packing up the medicine kit, walking to the door, and leaving without a backwards glance in my direction.

I carefully amble my way back to the bed, a sigh leaving my lips as I lay upon my back. The pain in my pelvis continues to increase as well. It worries me; I've never felt such aches before, not even during my cycles. This is different, sometimes sporadic, but the one thing I can always expect from my bleedings is just that—I expect them.

The bed is too hot for my liking but I don't move, the pain between my thighs intensifying with every minute movement. My mother may not be advanced like the Capitol, but she heals with amazing capability, as well as Prim and Rue. They could help.

Another jab through my pelvis snakes into my head, increasing the headache. I breathe in slowly, exhale slowly. I do this for a while, and it alleviates a bit of the throbbing that's bashing inside my skull, but it does minimal effect to the rest of me.

I watch the door open, hearing the creak, and Antonia comes back inside, holding washcloths but makes no step in my direction. She goes to the window and opens the curtains, blinding me with hot, white light. My eyes squeeze tightly, drawing another hiss through my teeth, and I cover my face from the sun. It's too, too bright and _everywhere_.

"Ugh, shut that!"

I hear her humph and she takes quick steps back to the door, saying, "You need the sun. You're looking very pale."

"My vagina hurts, woman, not my skin." I reply, glaring at her through my fingertips.

She stops, stares at me, and sniffs. "What the master sees in District 12 trash, I'll never know."

"I'll gladly switch places with you—then you can learn through the experience." I snap.

Her eyes widen a little before she purses her lips and vacates the room.

I know I should be more lenient, even polite and kind, to the people who come and take care of me. But Antonia is a completely different person from the other women who come in. They don't say anything about my situation but they're demure, even if they are quite standoffish. I'm rude, however, even to them. A little. Not as much as to Antonia, who seems to make it her life to bother me, but still.

I wonder how much she knows about my situation. If she believes I have sex with him willingly.

Does anyone even bother to find out what he does to me behind this door?

I understand that houses belonging to victors are enormous compared the miniscule homes in the districts, like the Victor's Village back home, pristine and overflowing with bushes of vibrant, colorful flowers.

I let out another sigh, sitting up as carefully as possible. A gasp escapes me when I take the first step, trembling from the ointment that didn't help and the heat pooling there, thin needles gouging the skin. I notice I'm bleeding again, but I want the window shut. I don't want the sunlight getting in here, showing me the world I've lost and will never have. I don't want the world anyway—it's too cold, too raucous, too bloodthirsty, and too wrong.

I look at my fingers before I close the curtains, however. I am getting paler, but I think she's over exaggerating. However, my nails may as well be considered nonexistent. They're chipped, bleeding, scabbed at the top and some of the skin is dry. I would go and wash them, like I always do, for there's nothing to do and I tend to scrub myself viciously whenever possible but I'm too tired to make the short trip to the bathroom sink.

The moment the curtains fall, my eyes sting less, relieved in the shelter of blackness, no light.

Darkness is nice.

I fall asleep in fire and ice, watching Prim freeze to death in my father's hunting jacket, my mother not even looking around, the living dead; and my body is burning from the biting snow, from heat too, because Peeta and Gale are both behind me, being burned alive at stakes, and Rue's whistle is the only echo—

"Wake up."

I do, I wake up. I touch my forehead and sweat covers my hand.

I look up, meeting his eyes, my heart stirring at seeing someone familiar, even if he's dangerous; he narrows his eyes at mine. "You're not getting sick again, are you?"

"No," I reply, "But I am bleeding."

"_Again?_"

"Yes, _again_."

He sighs loudly, crossing his arms, "That's perfect. You'll use up all the medicine in our cabinets before they're even necessary for the rest of us—"

"Where's Hyacinth?"

I know he doesn't like to be cut off midsentence and I'm surprised a little that he hasn't punched my face like usual, but normally he brings my baby with him.

"He's right there on the bed," he jerks his head back and I turn. He's awake, looking around with gray eyes. My captor had brought in a nightlight of sorts so there's some light, but not as bright as from the world outside. It's enough where it doesn't hurt to look at it and good enough where I can see my son in peace.

"He was looking for you."

"Really?" I ask, unable to contain mirth at the idea of my child wondering where I might be.

"Yeah; he was with me all day."

I ignore him, just watching my son look around, look at me, occasionally look at my tormentor, then back to me. I whisper little sweet things, delight bubbling in me.

"Antonia tried to sing to him last night. Didn't work so well,"

I snort.

"Can you sing to him?"

Singing. Can I sing? I don't remember having a voice.

I shrug. He sighs. "Being difficult won't get you anywhere."

I continue staring at my child, Hyacinth now latching onto my pinky, but bitterness creeps into me. I fear what he can do to me, what he may to do to Hyacinth, but it spills out, "You don't even know if I can or not."

"I know you can."

It startles me so much I jump on the bed. "What?"

"I've watched the reel of our Games. You sang to your little friend from 11. Why can't you sing to our son?"

He's watched me? He knows my special gift, given to me by my father?

…_Our_ son?

He just keeps looking at the pair of us, stark and bold, like the sunshine that made my eyes flame up and make me dizzy.

"Well?"

I'm not sure what to do. One half of me does not want to do anything he says, but the other half desires to badly to please my son.

Before I can answer, he's leaving and I ask where he's going.

"I'm going to the courtyard. I'll be back to pick him up."

Once he's gone, I find myself being a little braver and sing to Hyacinth, the walls, the ghosts that haunt my waking moments.

It's barely five minutes, I'm sure of it, because he comes back in and he has the smirk in place, the one that always means my destruction. He's tricked me again and he loves it.

"Gotcha,"

I weep for my voice that he stole without my permission.


	15. Albatross

**AN: Thanks to: londoneyedgirl, Dra9onf7yz, Saphira . Flametongue, CurryPuff, once and future, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, A. Fire. in. the. Attic, yuzuki-tan, HaveYouEverHeardTheStory, Klinej, those who've added/reviewed before and my anon.**

**Yes, I'm not done. Weather here is nuts so I'm gonna upload this, just in case it prevents me from uploading anything tomorrow, I won't be behind.**

**P.S. Someone said their birthday is today… Let's give a warm celebratory wish to HaveYouEverReadTheStory! Hope it's a good one! Ironic you get this chapter too. (Also, I didn't know until **_**after**_** I checked out your profile that your name's Antonia. My apologies. X'D)**

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><p><em>Albatross<em>

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><p>I'm waiting in the dim gloom, listening to my child's breathing. I allowed the sun to come in a little today, for my son.<p>

It's quiet. He's also there, watching us. Protecting Hyacinth, punishing me.

It's cold. He comes closer, as though he knows, his chest pressing against my back, his lips upon my neck. He hates me intensely, because that's all he murmurs—how his hatred for me is growing by the day. I don't doubt it, because I feel the same. But I fear. I fear all of him and all of me for fearing.

It's hot. He's too near, right beside me. I shudder because the proximity is still frightening, and when his fingers touch my neck, I think of the bruises he'd leave when he strangles me, leaving me to cough and sputter for life, dragged under by anxiety and hate.

It's difficult to contemplate anything with him around.

Hyacinth snorts, soft gurgles. It calms me, being next to my baby at least, with my captor behind me—crammed between light and darkness.

Fingers dig into my skin, gripping my shoulder, warm breath skimming my face…

"Stop it!" I whisper.

He does. But what will he do now?

He gets up and his hand reaches for my son—

"No, please…!" I murmur harshly, intense, like my life depends on it. Because it does.

"It won't be hard to take him, you know that."

"I know, I know," I tell him, "But you won't do it."

"Why not?"

"Because… he's your son, too,"

Something flickers in eyes the color of a crystallized sky. Light is there, beaming from heaven.

He leans forward now, my hands clutched protectively over my son, and his cover mine, as well my son's soft, fragile head.

"Katniss…" He's close, lips near to mine, and my heartbeat is so fast that it sounds like drumming songs.

It's insanity…

The next thing I hear and see and feel is the entire earth shattering, the sounds of rapid gunfire, disturbing the dark peace that surrounds my entire space, people screaming and it brings back horrible times of blood and hell.

My child is screaming, my tormentor is ready to kill, his stance threatening, and I simply sit, lost.

He's a hurricane of fury, a tempest in the glow of sunlight and embers.

Gale has broken into my world.

And I shout Cato's name.


	16. Loon

**AN: Thanks to: the7dreamer, once and future, A. Fire. in. the. Attic, thepinkmartini, Dra9onf7yz, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, TheEvilPeaches, mystripedskirt, LinetteCullen, sMoShFiRe, SaraSyco, nomcookies, Vamppirre, moon shining wolf, salemwitchtrial1692, QuitetheSardonic, nostalgiakills, HaveYouEverHeardTheStory, xMusicGurlx, confused-Luna, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, SkyeGraceSmith, eAeon, sw33tangel357, brandy1119, Egyptian Arrow, Willow101, those that have added/reviewed before and my anon.**

**Regarding ch. 14 and 15—I REGRET NOTHING.**

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><p><em>Loon<em>

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><p>It works and it doesn't work.<p>

I don't know what's wrong with me.

I shouted the name of my captor, and he turns to me, looking at me with such surprise and a flicker of something human—anger or another feeling that burns just as fierce—that it throws me out of the loop. He knows what I want—the protection of my child. I could care less about myself, or him, as long as my son is safe. That's why I called him.

But in my mind, where the softest part of my heart dwells, it cried out the name to distract him, to survive, to escape, and it also knew Gale would hear, because he's readying a gun and the loud clamor of its reverberating bullet shatters the fragile air. Hyacinth is crying hysterically, and my tormentor is howling, his thigh bleeding.

Gale is coming forward, his weapon held up, finger on the trigger—

"No!" I shout, holding myself in front of the wounded man behind me, "Let's go, Gale, let's go!"

He seems to understand, even though I can tell in his posture that he's intent on finishing the job. I grab Hyacinth, holding him close to my chest, and Gale rushes the two of us out of the room. My legs are tripping over themselves, not having run for months. My lungs twist from the air that's coated with ash and debris, as well as from the exertion it hasn't felt. I run, and run, my heart pounding from it all—the sounds, the cries, the thunder of bombs and human roars. But there's a heaviness weighing it down, that I'm not sure of.

"Right there!" I hear Gale shout. I look up and see a vast hovercraft that's whirring in the heavens, blocking the rage of sunlight.

There's a ladder, people on it, and their hands are reaching out to me, to hoist me up, to carry me far away—

My feet halt instantly.

"Katniss!" Gale cries, his hand outstretched, panic in his Seam gray eyes. "What are you doing?"

I shake my head. I continue toward him, his hand resting on my back, to urge me forward, to push me on, like he always seems to.

I hold my son tighter to me as I hold on with one arm. The wind is blowing fiercely. I whimper, hoping it won't blast my son into oblivion. The din is drowning out all other noise, and my ears are becoming deaf to the world, unable to take in all the noises—it's too used to silence, to quiet, to violent, hushed whispers.

"Katniss!" The whisper has become a battle cry. My head snaps over my shoulder, and I hold Hyacinth tighter, watching as he comes out of the rubble, crawling, a dead thing that haunts my life and afterlife. He looks to be in so much pain I can't bear to look—because I want him to suffer and, oddly, I don't.

"Katniss!"

Again, his voice shocks into me, calling to a part of me that's his, filling my mouth, my mind and spirit. It's louder than all the wedding bells and emergency sirens in the world—why won't it stop? _Why won't it stop!_

My knees feel something hard and metallic, and I look down in dizzying relief and dread as the earth becomes farther. He continues to stare at me, penetrating my soul, pinning me to the memories of heaven and hell together, a lake of frozen water with flames lapping at my face.

"Katniss! Katniss!" There's someone shaking me, and I look into the gray eyes of Gale, his face so broken and beautiful I barely recognize him.

"Oh thank God!" he says for my ears alone, holding me so tightly I press against him a little back. Hyacinth is crushed between us. And I don't know how I feel about him hugging me.

"Katniss!"

I'm tempted to snap. Why are so many people calling my name? But I just see that it's someone yelling into a device that allows communication. They say again, "It's Katniss! We've got the Girl on Fire!"

The Girl on Fire.

Me.

I was that. Wasn't I?

I remember yes. It was the name that tainted and exalted me.

"Hey, Catnip,"

I clutch Hyacinth closer as I turn to Gale, the large hovercraft door shutting stealthily, quick and efficient. The air ceases. It sucks out the air that I have wanted to breathe. But it wouldn't have mattered. I'm holding my breath.

He just smiles at me, looking at me as though I were the greatest treasure in the world. I don't understand why.

Then his eyes rove to my bosom, where my child is cradled. They narrow.

And the next thing I know I'm pleading, calling for him to stop as I watch my son's head being bashed into the wall—

"Katniss! Wake up, wake up!"

I'm screaming bloodcurdling wails. My face is gently held in cool fingers and I see Prim looking at me. There's light streaming in. It's the last dying rays of the sunset, sinking to its temporary grave. Then it's dark, I'm breathing hard. The fingers continue to comb through my hair, thin and delicate, white rose stems.

"Prim?" I gasp.

"Shh, I'm here," she murmurs, she's pulling me into her chest, "Shh… it's all right."

"What's going on?" Gale says.

My throat is parched, tightening, and I hiss, "Where's my baby?"

Gale blinks, face innocent. "He's with your mother in the next room."

Prim pats my forehead with a washcloth. "You were dreaming. You've been in and out of consciousness for a while. Mom says that happens sometimes."

Relief swells, a blossom inside my breast. "I want my baby with me."

Gale and Prim glance at one another, but they don't question me. Prim goes, giving me a small smile that's soul shattering.

Gale comes closer. I scoot a little bit backwards, an aversion crumbling upon my skin, dusting me. I don't understand why but I'm guessing it's the dream. Gale wouldn't hurt a child, not that young, not ever. I know him. I do, don't I?

"You all right?"

"A little," I reply. The throbbing in my head is getting a little stronger. It's so annoying.

He sits in Prim's chair, hands clasped before him, elbows on his knees. He leans until he's only a few feet from my bed. "You were very exhausted. We were panicking until we had a medic look over you. It was just a lot to take in."

That could be why the dream felt so jumbled and bizarre. The intensity of it was due to the memory of my rescue, a memory that was so fast and blurring I couldn't take it all in at once.

Prim enters back into the room, holding my son. My arms extend. Prim and Gale watch me with Hyacinth for a while. My sister sits upon the foot of the bed, smiling. "He's a cute baby, Katniss."

I chuckle quietly, "Thank you, Prim."

"Isn't he, Gale?"

I turn to look at him, ready to see hostility towards my son, the same way he had taken my baby and killing him in front of my eyes. But there's nothing there, nothing of bad worth anyway. He just smiles gently, sadly, and his fingers touch mine. I make myself sure not to pull away; it's uncomfortable but it'd hurt his feelings. We haven't seen each other in so long, after all.

Gale is my best friend. The closest I've ever let anyone outside of family come into my life. Why, then, did I dream of Gale murdering the one person in the world that kept me sane, that gave me a purpose in a hellish dungeon?

I let it go, attributing it due to all the insanity that's been filtering into my life; this wretched, unfathomable poison.

I sit up a little straighter. Hyacinth coos, reaching out to tug my hair and chew on some strands. I carefully remove his fingers from the dark tendrils, shaking my head in mock reproach at the saliva on my hair.

"You hungry?" asks Gale.

My stomach rumbles in reply.

Prim giggles and Gale smiles, both bright, relieved to have me back. I look at my arms, thin and no longer as strong. I was well-fed in prison but the meals were so portion sized they may as well have been coins. Prim begins to stand but Gale reaches out, telling her and me that he'll be glad to do it. We thank him and he walks out the door.

"May I hold him?"

"Of course," I tell him, "You are his aunt."

Prim blushes a little, with another emotion skittering into those blue gems, stirring the ocean. A tidal wave.

She holds my son with such care it makes me… less anxious to know that he'll always be in good hands with my sister. She's so kind to everyone, a natural flow of empathy and grace.

"I'm so glad to have you back, Katniss," she says, holding Hyacinth and I, kissing my cheek, "We were all so terrified for you."

I sigh. "Well, I'm glad to be back home." At last. Home.

Prim shyly glances at me.

I look at her, not comprehending. "What?"

"Katniss… we're in the Capitol."

My vision dims and I don't fight the beckoning of unconsciousness.


	17. Crane

**AN: Thanks to: sMoShFiRe, Saphira . Flametongue, Dra9onf7yz, moon shining wolf, TheEvilPeaches, once and future, SaraSyco, nomcookies, Sgaapje, confused-Luna, kerryskulls, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, Claquesous, A. Fire. in. the. Attic, klhansen22, Sweet Smiles, xxShayaxx, thepinkmartini, i'llmakeityou'llsee, FALLEN ANGEL 7DEATH, CurryPuff, Darkness Bandit, mystripedskirt, Tay's. Heartbeat. Is. My. Lullaby, oboudreaux, ronanissexy, Maddie Rose, those who've reviewed/added before and my anon.**

**Willow101: Chapters are gonna start getting longer, I think, now. Keep in mind everyone, the updates won't be as fast due to this. (And I'm entering finals.) But the updates will be regular.**

**Addressing all questions: I feel it's important to say at this point: Some questions will be answered within the story, others will be answered at the end in a Q&A. I've been taking every question that's been asked and saving them on Word. The reason for this Q&A is also due to the direction, but there are many routes to reach the end. Writing Katniss is insane because there's so much crap happening to and around her. As a writer, I've found that guiding characters is better than taking over them. All right, so, having said that, thank you all so much again for the support and infinite patience and love I feel from you all. *hugsandkisses***

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><p><em>Crane<em>

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><p>The people around the table were chatty until I entered the room. The sobriety that filled the space was fast, spilling over onto me and making me uneasy, cut with airy knives. I sit next to Prim, who eyes me with love but there's a tint of caution in those blue depths. It wounds me a little. I pretend it doesn't bother me.<p>

I've no real appetite for anything, despite not having a decent full meal in months. My stomach just sinks with every bite, wanting to expel whatever's coming into it, despite the feeling of starvation and the rumbles that vibrate in me. I manage to eat one bowl of soup but ignore the rest of the food that's laid out for us. This causes Gale and my sister to look at me thoughtfully, silently inquiring what's wrong but, of course, I don't say anything.

I just want this over with.

"What's going on?"

This finally ceases all chatter. Every head turns, every pair of eyes digging into my skin, trying to understand me as I try to understand it all. I want to just know so I can go back to my room and sink into the mattress, where the only boy who will share it with me is my son, and only my son.

Haymitch, who has been a part of this little coup, speaks first, never missing a beat. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything,"

"Now, Katniss," beings my mother, but I quiet her with a look. She doesn't say anything but I can tell that she's displeased with my reproach, as well as the fact she doesn't think I can handle it. No one does. Ever since I passed out from just the mention of the Capitol, where we now are, every treats me so delicately it's infuriating.

The indifferent mask that's been my friend since my father's death slips easily back on. It's been with me through it all, and I welcome it.

"Why are we here?"

"Hold on, sweetheart," he begins, and this causes others besides me to glare. He's the only one who doesn't treat me too differently due to my circumstances. I don't know how to feel about it yet. "Now, it's a very complicated little thing." He sips his spirits, rank with a bitter cloying scent. I wait. It feels like forever just to get a damned answer from anyone nowadays.

"We'll start from the beginning…"

And he does. Haymitch carefully lays it out. After I had been taken prisoner by my captor, tension had increased throughout our country of Panem. Riots had broken out, mainly in 8, 4, and surprisingly 11, due to the death of Rue. This is shocking since 11 has the highest and most brutal security in any of the districts. There are people who are loyal to me. During the time of my imprisonment, I'd become something of an idol, a face of power and sacrifice to those who are rebelling. They call me the Mockingjay, since I had sung to Rue during her death and because of my pin. I didn't have to do anything—I easily fell into the spot of a martyr and it's riveting for a country who has felt the oppression of a strong fist for generations upon generations.

"It couldn't have been more perfect," he says.

I quirk a brow, knowing there's more.

"Really eager, are we? Well, here's another thing. Your friend there," he says, pointing to Gale, "is our fearless leader."

This does cause my eyebrows to rise and I look at Gale. His face is serious with the burden of leadership, thinking about all that's occurring. It makes perfect sense, really. He's a brilliant whiz with snares, knowing just where to set up them up, a natural strategist. Haymitch says that it took a while to completely bring together the districts that were noble to the cause, including 12; finally, the bravest, smartest, and strongest of our men, with some valuable women, joined arms with the rebels to fight the Capitol and its never-ending tyranny. Haymitch says it works and I agree, to an extent. They've shown me videos of Gale in action, calling people to side against our nation's most domineering president. He's proved himself in the videos that he's a capable tactician and politician, his looks adding to his favor and the intensity of his adamant hatred for the Capitol, for me, and I'm sure a lot of others, he's no Peeta. It's not that Gale doesn't have the ability to sway individuals, he does—with that sharp wit and tongue; but for those of us who knew Peeta well and his ingenious way to woo the people with conviction, no one had been sure if Gale would be up for the job.

Thankfully, he's doing well.

Haymitch takes a brief pause in order for me to ask anything.

"District 12 and the other districts," I say, "How many are still standing?"

"All of the ones who joined us and the ones who didn't have fallen. That's namely 1 and 2. Believe me, many of them wanted the Capitol brought down."

It had taken weeks upon weeks to get through the defenses of the Districts loyal to the Capitol and finally reach the end, or somewhat close to it. District 2, at the time, was being carefully monitored because everyone knew I was there. When the time came to fight against District 2, Gale was adamant about going straight in, yet there weren't many who wanted to follow his plan, even if he was the leader. He managed to persuade them however and they plotted out a plan to do battle, to conquer, to win.

"How many casualties happened because of that?" I ask. The Capitol's defenses are impenetrable. The Dark Days are a reminder of that.

"We had some," he explains, "But none in the Capitol."

My eyes widen, "What do you mean none? They just let you in?"

Gale interrupts and Haymitch obviously doesn't mind. Gale looks at me for a moment before he shakes his head, "No, they didn't. We walked right through with no intervening of any kind." I can't imagine it, Gale walking upon marbled steps, pristine sidewalks and through throngs of silly, frilly, colored people, heading right into the heart of our nation with nothing to attack.

"Why?"

Gale is quiet. The whole table is sullen.

"The Capitol and I are in a treaty. We've called a truce."

A truce? That's impossible! The Capitol is a ruthless killer among killers that are forced to destroy. "I don't understand. Why is that?"

"Katniss, calm down—"

"Gale, this is the enemy! Why in the bloody hell are we siding with them?" I'm breathing too hard, my vision becoming blurry. My mother and my sister are beside me, Prim soothing me by rubbing my back, and my mother immediately straight-faced, holding a fancy lapel napkin one hand that she dunked in the ice water. Effie would have stroke. She probably is having one—I can see her in peripheral vision, watching my mother's hands wring the exquisitely embroidered thing.

After they coax me to take some water and a tiny liquid gel tablet, I calm down slightly. Gale is kneeling before me, brushing some strands from my face. Or attempting to. I pull away whenever his fingers get too close. It's not just that I'm shocked with his decision to side with the very thing that he's been trying to destroy since he learned to think. It's not just that men make me uncomfortable. It's the fact I don't know how to respond to these kinds of touches, intimate ones. It would make an implication that I've only been too well-aware of since living in 12. That Gale and I would one day fall in love and be married and happy then die. It's just dumb little fantasy and I brush it away like the pest it is.

I glance to my left, where Haymitch is sitting. He's the only one who's calm, even though he does look a little perturbed by my reaction. I can't allow that to happen. No one will take me seriously if it looks as though I'm constantly having a mental breakdown.

"Tell me the rest," I sigh, setting down the glass so no one will be able to tell my hands are shaking.

Gale stares at me. He then continues, going on about saying that the invitation to the Capitol was very personal, how Snow himself sent and wrote the message to Gale. He had explained that all the charges against the rebels will be dropped on the condition that the two sides join in order to avoid any more bloodshed. Secretly, I bet everyone was slightly relieved—the Dark Days are a time in our history that no one likes to talk about. It's a painful, broken shard that sticks out in the belly of our being, bleeding us out—because people wanted to fight and be moronic and us lesser descendants have to pay for their insolence.

Gale tells me how he had a hard time believing it at first; I don't blame him. This is the psycho who has been in a long line of other bastards who've sent children to murder children for the sake of entertainment. The thought of it brings back up so many memories that I have to hold myself back from putting my head in my hands. The headaches increase, along with painful throbs in my eyes, whenever I think of it.

"The treaty is going to stay, Katniss," he says, looking at me square in the face. I can tell he's not lying. Snow may be a liar, I'm sure he is—no one who is cruel cannot not know how to tell a lie—but Gale is sincere with me.

"What is the purpose of this?" I whisper, not daring to break the quiet too much. There's more he's not telling me.

Gale finally looks up and checks with the people in the room if he should continue, the faces of people I trust and yet aren't sure to trust.

"Katniss, I know it's hard to take in but the truce is here—it's the only way to protect our people."

"And what's the cost?"

"…the one who began the rebellion."

In other words, me; me, the Girl on Fire, who lit the spark… I'm suddenly on my feet and I'm about to bolt through the door when Gale catches me by the waist, and I'm screaming and kicking my way through. Terror stricken me and I struggle harder to flee.

"Katniss, it's not you! It's not you!" Gale shouts, assent and agreement coming from the people here.

They lower me onto a chair and Gale grips me, holding me in place. Gale grips my hand as Haymitch comes forward, informing me that, while I may be the cause, I'm not the source.

"Who else is it then?" I hiss.

"The Victor from 2,"

It stuns me. The Victor from 2…

"Cato?"

He nods. The world is spinning, "I… how is it him?"

When he took me for his own, I was fashioned by the rebels and the Capitol later, into the girl who lost everything because she loved so much. For the rebels it was truth, but, I bet for the Capitol, it was just a way to save their skins.

Cato: the enemy of the Capitol.

Cato: the weapon that the Capitol now wants gone.

Cato: dear, confusing, brutish, Cato…

There's laughter ringing in my ears, and I'm trying to find the source. I realize it's me, laughing and crying hysterically into my hands, and the faces of these people that I love but don't trust are looking at me in horror, because the laughter coming out of me is frightening, chilling my own body, sliding into my marrow, an injection of euphoria that I haven't felt in eons. It's the laughter of someone who wants to see her oppressor die, the laughter of someone who wants revenge.

It's the laughter of someone who's lost her mind.


	18. Starling

**AN: Thanks to: xxShayaxx, once and future, ganzanz, londoneyedgirl, AudreyGrace, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, confused-Luna, Down the Highway, mystripedskirt, Maddie Rose, myxs, **emma . roflcoptavromm**, Lady Sakura of the Uchihas, Dra9onf7yz, books-n-cookies, donnyymia, officialalexanderludwig, Bloodredfirefly, StardustSpike, thepinkmartini, theonenameleft, A. Fire. in. the. Attic, jessgold94, those who've added/reviewed before and my anon.**

**Had to break from school for a bit… AND WHAT IS THIS? ALMOST 200 REVIEWS…? *faints***

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><p><em>Starling<em>

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><p>Nothing can wake me up.<p>

I'm trapped in some place I don't understand. It's frightening, surreal, and it feels like home to me.

Nothing can wake me up…

Wailing and cries wake me up and I panic, sitting up too fast, making my head spin. Hyacinth is grabbing the air, and I scoop him into me, holding him tightly. I murmur and sing to him until his eyes become heavy and he drifts into the one place where I can't protect him.

Placing him upon the soft mattress of his crib, I catch the scent of honey and oats. I turn, seeing something that looks mushy sitting in an elegant clear bowl, warm and fragrant. I take the food, sit on the bed, and eat it slowly, meticulously. My stomach growls viciously but I make myself take it all in with extreme lethargy.

And, honestly, I just don't feel like eating…

So half of it still sits in the bowl, looking pathetic in its half-eaten, incomplete state; I curl up into the bed, watching silver rays dance upon the floor and the walls, quiet valences of another world I can't touch.

Sleep decides to escape me. I get up, wrapping myself further into a robe and walk out the door. I can't think straight. I haven't been able to think straight since my sister's name was drawn at the Reaping. Everything is just too crazy.

I'm dying to go back home, to the woods, where everything is simple and clean, where things make sense and the only puzzles I have to figure out involve the sky and the earth.

My family and Gale's have no qualms with living in the Capitol. None of my people do. There's always food, water, doctors, showers, more food and water. It's good for them to have the things that they've desperately deserved all this time; however, I terribly wish it wasn't within this hellish place. Cinna is the only person I can stand from here, sometimes Effie. But, now, I cannot help but be wary of everybody. The only two people I can have with me and I won't feel the least hostile are Hyacinth and Prim. Most of the time, I don't want anyone else near me.

No one seems to get that.

I'm walking through the hallway with phantom legs, trying to find their sinew, their weight, their flesh. They creak and protest but within a while, they find a bit of themselves. The silence of the place is daunting but welcome. There's too many people here, asking if I'm fine, how I'm feeling, where I'm going, saying what I need to do; it's never the questions I want to hear: when I want my medicine, when I want to sleep, where I would like to play with my son, if I want to be left alone, if I want to leave…

People are stupid.

Because people are stupid, I walk back to my room, to keep them from Hyacinth and to avoid anyone who may be roaming the halls with me. Everyone's taken a liking to Hyacinth and it worries me a little bit. I just don't like the idea of people I don't know very well being around my child. The Capitol people mainly.

Murderers of children shouldn't be around children.

I enter into the quiet darkness and don't bother to flip on the light. I merely collapse atop the mattress, face planted right into the covers. Maybe I'll suffocate myself to death lying like this… but I know it won't work. Not when Hyacinth is here. And I toss too much in my sleep anyway—nightmares never allow me to stay still.

I don't know what I'm waiting for. I don't exactly know what's going on. I'm just tired and I want to sleep but it's so elusive, mocking me, flashing frightening fragments of memories behind my lids but without the relief of drowning in dreams.

Soon the sun is rising and I'm groaning loudly, fisting the sheets and pulling them up past my face. Why is it always so bright so soon?

Hyacinth is stirring, I hear him begin to whine and soon enough I hear his whines become loud, agitated cries. I rise, tired and exhausted, scooping him into my arms. I'm not allowed to breastfeed him because of all those damned medications they're giving me to help me with my insomnia and night terrors. Countless other pills too—to help me gain weight, to keep the depression to a minimal degree, to counter the weight gaining pill because apparently I get sick with it but no one will take me off it so they give me yet another drug.

Hyacinth is pulling at my shirt and the pleading in his eyes makes me hurt. "I know, but until they get rid of the meds, you're stuck on that baby powdered stuff."

Hyacinth seems to almost grimace, as though he knows what I'm talking about. I smile at him and wrap him closer in a lighter blanket, carrying him out of the room and into the hallway.

We reach the room where breakfast is usually served and I load up some fruit and a bit of the oatmeal I'd been given earlier. My son doesn't particularly like eating solids, even if they're crushed up to practically liquids, but he's a good boy and opens his mouth when the spoon comes forward.

Behind me, the door opens, sliding automatically with a gentle swoosh. I continue to feed my child with a deeper intensity to ignore the person behind me, no matter who it is. The footsteps are too soft and quiet to be Haymitch, who stumbles with every breath, and it cannot be Effie, who clops about the place, sounding like a horse in those high heels.

Prim will be asleep. My mother will be with her.

It's Gale.

But I'm wrong.

I'm glancing to my right and stare at Madge, who is sipping quietly on a cup of something that smells bitter. Probably coffee. Madge had recently gotten here, a part of the rebellion. She'd lost her parents a couple months ago to the cause of the rebels but she had remained loyal to them. I'd never taken her to be one for such a thing but there were plenty of things I'd never taken her to be either. One thing she remains to be is a girl who minds her own business and she does it now, just sipping her drink and offering silence to me. I add her to the list of people who don't piss me off.

Hyacinth gurgles and spits, yellow orange stuff escaping his mouth, dribbling down his chin. I grab a napkin and wipe him clean. He then has the silliest idea to begin to chew on it, looking at me with such bright hopeful eyes.

"Tough little guy, aren't you?"

Hyacinth and I glance at Madge. I've lost his attention and he stares at her, wondering who in the world she is. Madge is also a very pretty girl so it doesn't surprise me that he'll be looking. The dim sunlight peeking in is touching his hair, which is a bright golden color now, contrasting with the darkness of his skin and milky gray eyes. It's not as dark as my captor's, and it's brighter than even Madge's. It's just so pale, thin silver skeletal fingers. I'm hoping it will darken to a more normal shade, one that doesn't look like something from the Capitol. A color that's more like Peeta's…

"He's a strong child, Katniss,"

I grunt, but my pride swells. He's the only good thing I've ever created.

She continues to sip her coffee before she rises to walk to the other end of the room. Refilling her cup with the strong, heavy brew; she then looks over her shoulder at me, "You want something?"

I shake my head. Stomaching anything down is still difficult. The weight pills are backfiring, I think. They don't add fat or muscle onto me and it doesn't make me crave food either. Food's just revolting at the thought of it.

This strikes me. I've never hated food before… I used to want it all the time. Getting food, buying food, hunting food was my life and now I can barely have a passing thought about it without wanting to puke. So much about me has changed. I never thought it could happen—a person from District 12 denying food.

A shriek builds into my throat but I hold it in until it suffocates and dies.

"Are you all right?"

I find myself gripping the spoon too tightly, fingers red and knuckles white, hot, iron brands. Hyacinth is quiet, tense, watching me anxiously. I don't look at Madge, not wanting to see her face. I rise from the chair, try to feed my son a little bit more, and at his refusal, I take it as a good cue to leave. Lifting him up into my arms, I'm walking towards the door when it opens and Gale walks in.

"There you are,"

I pause, tense.

"We've been looking for you,"

"Who is?"

"Well, the lot of us. We have to discuss some things."

I relent my child to his crib, where Prim is there waiting to take care of him. She takes him into her arms and at his delighted squeal, I relax a little bit.

Following Gale and Madge down the hallway behind them, I don't look at anything or anyone but the floor and the black boots on my feet. Whispering is ahead of me. Madge and Gale are speaking in hushed tones. My eyes follow their movements; my ears listen to the rhythm of their voices, how close they are next to each other.

In another lifetime, I might've been jealous.

In another lifetime, I might've cared.

Here, where I am, I can barely hold interest.

We come into a new hall that's so sterilized my nose crinkles up. We walk to a door that has a security guard on each side. They identify all of us, and then we walk through the door. Haymitch, Cinna and Effie are already there. Gale and Madge take their seats. I walk to the other side of the table so I can look at the screen. They're going to ask me to sit here either way so I may as well accommodate them. I hate being told what to do. I like to do it on my own—so it'll feel like I'm in control of something.

"Good, we're all here," Effie states, "Although some of us could've been here a little earlier…"

Gale gives her a brief glare but retains whatever biting comment bristled upon his tongue.

It is almost similar to the days of the Games, but my stylists aren't here, and neither are Portia and her crew. It's completely empty of anything connected to Peeta.

"Now, before we start," says Haymitch, "Katniss, is there anything you want to ask?"

"Just what we're going to discuss and how it pertains to me."

He doesn't mind my clipped tone but Effie clearly doesn't like it. I can just hear her squawk in her head, _Manners!_

"Well, sweetheart, our president sent us a message very early this morning. He wants to talk with you personally."

"Why can't he just talk to you?"

"He asked for you."

"…when does he plan to call again?"

"Sometime this evening; he didn't give us any specifics either on what the details of the conversation will be. So just be on your toes."

"If we're in a truce with him, why do I need to be wary?"

"You know why."

And I do know why. Despite the new treaty between the Capitol and the Districts, we're all hanging by a thread of humanity and sanity that's so thin; a child's stare can cut it. I nod, agreeing, even though I would much rather do anything else.

"What else?"

Effie puts her hand on Haymitch's shoulder and Gale stiffens in my peripheral vision. Madge and Cinna are the only ones that are stiller than stone yet don't give off any pretentious or fearful airs. They continue to stare at the table.

"You shouldn't tell her," hisses Effie.

"What is it?" I snap, my patience cracking.

Haymitch turns to me, "I was going to tell you but you're not ready to handle it."

"What do you mean I'm not ready to handle it?"

"With the way you're acting, it would be best if we postpone even letting you know about it now."

"But you've already brought it up to my attention!" I claim, pounding a fist on the table, "Just tell me what you're talking about."

Cinna interjects, "Katniss, you're riled and filled with too many emotions—which is understandable—but we're thinking it would be good to refrain you from fully knowing about it."

I turn to him, a fresh wave of hurt washing over me. It's because it's Cinna, who had said he'd bet on me over anyone, and he thinks I'm not the same. Which is true, I'm not.

I can't get hurt anymore.

"I can handle it."

Effie sighs heavily as Haymitch straightens up, Cinna stares at me with sad, kind eyes, while Gale and Madge both have looks of anger on their faces.

"The Victor from 2 would like to see you."

Him…

"Why does he want to see me?"

"We were wondering the same thing, sweetheart,"

"But you do not have to go and see if you do not want to!" Effie says quickly. I see a flicker of fear there but I don't understand why.

Gale stands up, the chair protesting on the hard floor. "No, she can't. And she won't."

"Why not?" I say. It's not because I desire to him—not at all. I'm asking more out of the fact he's speaking for me and it's not his place to do so, broken shared past or not.

"Katniss, he can't be trusted," answers Gale, eyes hard as they lock onto mine. It's there in his voice, the tone, and the stance of his body— that I should know better.

The thing is I do. I do know better.

"I want to hear what he has to say."

There are immediately rounds of dissent that drowns out my voice, conquering and burying it. Frustration builds and I finally shout that I won't see him. I storm out of the room, intent on heading back to mine, where my son and sister are the only people in the world that I'm certain I never want to harm.

Prim and Hyacinth are beautiful in the deepening twilight. I watch the sun kiss the sky goodbye, the sky blushing with hot white stars. I cover them further up with the blanket, Hyacinth sleeping with a hand curled about Prim's finger.

Slowly, I head to the door, remembering the conversation that Snow will want with me. No doubt that there are escorts being sent here to fetch me. I've decided to beat them. I wander the halls often enough to occupy my mind and to allow Hyacinth a view besides one confined space…

The only footfalls that echo are mine, thudding quietly. In a matter of time, I find myself before the door where we held our conference this morning. The guards recognize me without the identification and allow me in. No one is there but me. I flip on the television, the screen blank. Before long there's a beeping sound, with the words 'Incoming Message' flashing upon the darkness. Snow is then there, facing me and I'm facing him. He looks so disgusting.

"Girl on Fire,"

"Snow,"

He smiles sleazily. It doesn't do much to me besides desire for a bath. His grin is venomous no matter what.

"It's been a long time,"

I nod.

"Let's get to the point, Miss Everdeen. The capture of District 2's tribute must've been a relief to you. I'm glad that you made it out safely."

I remain silent.

"This is in regards to him," he continues, slowly enunciating, as though I were lame in mind. I'm crazy, not stupid. "I have a proposition for you… Justice can be doled out for you. There will be a trial for him in two weeks in regards to the rebellion. You are the best witness against him."

"All right…"

"That's not the only thing I'm asking you to do. You are also his judger."

I blink. "What?"

"Cato is a traitor to the country of Panem. He's done the most inexplicable doing of sending the country into chaos and, of course, what he did to you was most detrimental."

A piece of me wants to tell him to shove his fake pity somewhere else.

"Since you are the largest witness to this, it only makes logical sense to have you be his judge."

"I don't understand. Why don't you do it?"

He shrugs noncommittally. "It's only fair that the girl he sexually abused is allowed to have vengeance. Isn't it?"

I cannot help but agree with that.

He does deserve this, everything and more…

"Is this a yes, Miss Everdeen?"

"No."

"Pardon me?"

"I'll need some time to think about it."

He's wearing a smile that shows knowledge, smugness and arrogance. He continues to stare into me, to break my spirit. I don't have much of it left. It's too empty inside of me—this won't be hurtful. I wonder if Snow is serious and if he'll recant his decision.

"Very well," he replies, stroking his bead, "You have a week to make your decision."

I thank him. Watch Snow leave and the blackness settle, a contrast to the brightness of the individual I just saw.

The judge of my captor… it's almost dreamlike. It's like breathing again, finding your footing and falling into sweet, soft dreams. However… I wonder if I can do it. If I can actually say in front of everyone, to him to his face, that he guilty of multiple penalties and then watching him die.

Yet my mind is saying not to do so.

I rise from the chair, look to the left then the right. I head to the left, a new determined purpose driving into me.

It's time I found the man that demolished my life. I know where he is. He's in the darkest part of the building, with four guards at the door. The opening is steel, plated with iron and copper. Each guard holds a gun and other intimidating objects. I take a deep breath and walk forward.

"State your name."

"Everdeen, Katniss."

The guard that questioned me doesn't even bother to breathe, "You are not authorized to head inside this vicinity, Miss Everdeen."

A part of me bristles but I make sure to grit my teeth. "If I cannot speak to him and go in there, can I at least see him?"

All four guards look at one another with wary glances and then back to me, wondering if I'd sprouted something grotesque. They move aside. I slide open the little slot that allows people to see inside.

I don't know what to think. He looks powerful yet vulnerable, chained to each side of the room while tightened completely in a white jacket that has many buttons and belts to hold him into place. He appears to be sleeping. I stare and stare. To kill him or not to kill him…

His head slowly rises and his eyes catch mine, ice that pierces deeply.

He smirks, the one meant to destroy me.

I plan to kill him too.

Then, it's there, the other thing—the emotion I cannot tell he's ever faking. He looks shattered….

I plan to talk to him, to find things out.

Then, I'll kill him. And I'll learn to laugh.


	19. Cockatoo

**AN: Thanks to: xMarvelousMarvelx, celine-twilightadict, LinetteCullen, ronanissexy, jledallas, Dra9onf7yz, thepinkmartini, Chiri-tan, SEGAgirl82, xXTheBoyWithTheBreadXx, peanutbutterQueen, musicgirl0723, books-n-cookies, FantasyFreakLover, ZetaStar, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, ngochan, Flynn0110, SaraSyco, CowgrlFromHell, Foxface is the Mockingjay, OneLiner, Lin-isfallingupthesky, Marizhka18, Fizzyink007, praytomusic,** **anonymoose, Caaaandra, Kaze, those who've added/reviewed before and my anon.**

**Little rant: I hate school. My updates used to be faster. Remember how it was EVERY day? DX**

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><p><em>Cockatoo<em>

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><p>There's intense pain between my legs, and I'm being pushed back, being devoured in both soft chuckles and fingers and flesh. There are people laughing, watching me scream, scream and bite and grind my teeth till I bleed, red droplets falling onto my hands while I'm trying to climb out of this grave, out of my captor. I don't try hard enough and he swallows me alive.<p>

I wake up with jolt, the sounds of them still echoing, ringing loudly in my ears. I cradle my head in hands, waiting for it to subside but there's no reprieve. I look to my left, where Prim and Hyacinth lay. They are deep in slumber so I rise up from the bed to get my legs moving. They know where to head.

Because soon I'm in front of the massive security door, and again, I slide open the slot. This time, he really is asleep. He's curled up into himself, looking angelic and demonic all at once, a god in bondage. It hasn't even been two days yet since Snow gave me a position of power over my enemy. I do not dare bring it up in front of the others, for they will all concede to his dying. I don't blame them, and I desire his death above all else, more than anyone else.

If there's one thing I want in the world, it's his death.

I would fantasize about it, soak in imaginary crimson stains when he made my body spill red all over the sheets, when he'd force me into a corner and just cause me bodily harm, I imagined him being whipped to death, or worse. There was no end to my thoughts, how badly I wanted him to die, and all the time. It was one of the few things that brought me pleasure, even if it looked bleak and impossible. There was nothing else I could do but kill him over and over in my mind.

I stop looking at him. He looks too childlike, lines eased, eyes closed, so ice can't freeze me.

The sun will rise soon, so I head back to ready Hyacinth. Surprisingly, he's awake when I return, bubbling with Prim upon the bed. And Gale.

"There she is," says Prim.

Gale looks behind himself at me, and I see over the bend of his shoulder that Hyacinth is clutching onto one of Gale's fingers. I'm not certain whether that should warm me or not. My son looks entirely comfortable, wrapped in my sister's arms, looking vulnerable and weak so near to Gale, whose hands can break anything. But they can mend things too…

"Hey, where'd you go?"

"Went for a walk,"

Gale doesn't say anything, he just nods. I don't know if he thinks I'm lying or not; which is ridiculous, since I did go for a walk.

He stands and I move forward to my children, taking Hyacinth into my arms while Prim scoots closer to me. I wait for him to tell me something but he only continues to stand there.

"Prim, can you take Hyacinth to the dining room?" I ask. She consents, nodding warily as she glances back and forth between the two of us. She kisses my cheek, as she has been doing a lot lately and I return it, giving one to my baby.

Once I'm sure they're far enough away from the door, I cut to the point, "What is it?"

"You've been sneaking around at night."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what," he replies, voice carefully quiet.

"There's nothing going on,"

"Don't lie to me, Katniss. The guards standing by his cell told me early this morning."

"I don't know what you're—"

"Katniss, you know what I'm talking about!" he says, raising his voice slightly, "Why are you lying to me?"

"I don't see what the problem is! I don't talk to him and he doesn't to me—"

"Katniss, why do you even want to see him?"

Why do I do it?

I'm not sure myself. I'm not. How can I explain it to him if I myself don't comprehend it…?

"Is this because we told you no."

"Yes," I reply, just because I need to have something to say.

Gale huffs, cursing beneath his breath, "Catnip, you know better than to do something so rash—"

"Stop talking to me as though I can't handle anything!"

"I'm not talking to you like that! You know I wouldn't, why are you being so difficult?"

Difficult. I'm being difficult.

There are tears threatening to sting my eyes, burning at the edges, because his tone is the same as my murderer's, and all the things in my life remind me of him, shining black light and distorting my vision. He haunts my dreams and my waking thoughts, keeping me bound to him, locking me in his arms, and I'm being swallowed into the grave that I call his body.

"You don't understand what I've been through!" I shout, "You don't understand anything!"

"Then help me to understand!"

"You can't! No one can!"

"Katniss…" he sounds hurt, trying to hold me, unaware that I'm too broken, with thorns and shards sticking out from my skin. Peeta got too close and he paid the ultimate price—dying for someone that could never appreciate him, that didn't deserve love from someone as beautiful as he was.

"Leave me alone."

He reaches, hands outstretched, and he has no idea how badly I can burn him, the Girl on Fire.

"Go away!"

Gale withdraws his hand but he makes no movement towards the door, continuing to look into the dirty vase of my body into an even dirtier soul. I can't help it, I grab the dresser behind me and push it down, crashing upon the floor, before grabbing the lamp on it and hurling it at the wall, listening to the satisfying destruction of its pathetic life, to be used until it gets burned out, to be replaced, to be forgotten—I helped it.

"What did Snow tell you?"

"He didn't tell me anything."

"He clearly did—you haven't been the same since he talked to you."

"I haven't been the same since the Games began, Gale."

He doesn't say anything because we both know it's true. He doesn't say anything either due to the knock upon the door. The intrusion is welcome to me and I see Madge's golden hair spilling about her shoulders, eyeing the two of us with intense silent skies.

"Gale, Haymitch has been looking for you."

"Not now, Madge,"

"He means now—"

"Right now's not the time!"

She bristles, looking deeply wounded at the harshness in his tone. I don't like the way he spoke to her either. "You watch it—she's just telling you what's going on."

Gale has the decency to look chagrined and he makes his way to her. "I'm sorry. There's just… a lot going on."

Madge gives a small smile, saddened but understanding, "It's all right." I watch the movements of her hands, how they seem to move to him, hovering near his, knuckles close to his waist. There's a thing in me stirring, a possessiveness of which I don't comprehend but the curiosity to this turn of events is stronger. So I just stare. Madge looks lost but Gale is as composed as ever, only showing that moment of sincerity when he apologized to her. She walks out the door and Gale turns back to me.

"You and Madge, huh?" I inquire.

"W-What?" he says, looking bewildered, "No! What in the world makes you say that?"

"The way you two were looking at one another just now."

"There's nothing going on between her and me."

And I've learned how to fly.

"Don't change the subject, Katniss," he says, approaching me again, "You haven't told me what Snow wants."

"…it really is nothing."

He sighs, fingers pressing into his temples. "All right, I know you'll tell eventually, if you decide to."

And with that he leaves me alone in the confines of my room.

I forgot to ask about the possibility of seeing my captor. Gale would most definitely say no but I could always put it to a vote when we have the next conference. It shouldn't be too long until I can bring up the topic. It's not that I'm looking forward to it, or even seeing him in person, I just have to try again to see him. There's a feeling nagging inside me to question him, to question things, to question life itself and why it spins the way it spins.

I lay down on the bed, a heaviness weighing down my eyes, holding them down for the most part. The difficulty to manage my thoughts becomes just as cumbersome, with all those words and pictures and feelings becoming one jumbled mess inside me.

I wake up later and I see the clock. It's only been fifteen minutes but it feels so much longer. I get up, heading to the kitchen, hoping that Prim is there so I can be with her and Hyacinth. I see him with her, chewing on a pacifier. He sees me and at his reaching out, fingers grasping the air, I practically flitter to him, glad to be with the few individuals who don't make me question anything about what's going on.

We all play together. Well, they play. I observe. Prim is becoming a delicate young woman, her hair out of the control of braids, framing her face and bringing out the blue of her eyes. Hyacinth is almost a contrast, save for the hair that resembles starlight and sun beams.

My fingers stroke his face and his eyes, the color of dismal clouds, a light shade of stone in the sun, turn to me and he gurgles, a happy smile on his face, because I'm smiling at him.

I don't know what I would do without him.

I would probably die.

We don't leave the room until suppertime, and the three of us head together in companionable silence. It's not until I sit at the table, where every eye is watching me, birds of prey that desire to protect, that I get uncomfortable but I do not show my discomfort, slurping my soup in tiny spoonful. My appetite is still not back and I wonder if it ever will be.

Cinna looks at me, and the color reminds me of meadows. I relax a little. "Katniss, how did your appointment with your doctor go?"

"…I…"

Effie sighs as Haymitch drinks back a glass of spirits. "Katniss, really, you're supposed to attend these things. You told me that if I allowed you to go on your own, you would do so."

Effie has a point—I did tell her that, but I had no inclination to go those pointless hours of talking of my feelings, of being pulled into the darkness to find out the source of it. We all know the source, we know what it's done to me—I just want to be alone to wallow in it. The same way I promised I would try to go outside more, the same way I promised I would try not to tell lies; but they bring me comfort. I tried to be truthful and it cost so much pain. Lies cause the same hurt but it's only if they catch me. Aside from this, no one would notice.

But I recall the argument with Gale I had today, how he hated the fact I would tell a bold white fallacy to his face.

Madge clears her throat, "It's not that bad, Effie. Katniss was with Hyacinth today."

"That's not the point, Madge," she replies a little crossly, but more against my actions than Madge herself, "The point is this: when someone tells you to do something, you should come through to do it. Katniss," she says, turning to me, "I know it's difficult but you must know that going to see the doctor is for your benefit."

"My benefit? Why in the world would it be beneficial—we haven't done anything aside from check how my body is doing and how I'm feeling. It's all pointless."

"You haven't tried—"

"No, and I don't intend to," I cut her off, "It's a waste of my time when I could be doing other things."

Haymitch interjects, "Listen sweetheart, I'm going to be frank with you. The rebellion is calm now due to the truce, but what would happen if it doesn't all go accordingly. How in the world do you expect people to follow you if you aren't taking care of yourself?"

"Follow me? What are you talking about?"

Before any of the others can say anything, Haymitch continues without pause, "Cato may be the cause of the rebellion for capturing you, but you are still an important asset. You have the name of the Girl on Fire, and because of what's happened to you, many individuals will follow."

I highly doubt that. Being a rape victim doesn't make me more deserving of kindness or empathy. I hear things, see how some people look at me, accusing me, pointing sharp hot rods into my skin, telling me how filthy I am, murmuring how I willingly had sex with him—for it's the only logical explanation to how I'm alive; I did unthinkable, immoral things, allowing myself to be held into bondage by a man that doesn't understand humanity.

The thoughts swirl in my head, blinding me with red rage.

"There's no way that I'll be a rebel leader. You have Gale."

"That may be so, but everyone loves a martyr."

No, everyone loves a fucking gossip story. Martyrs are secretly made fun of.

"I'm leaving," I say, walking to my child and lifting him from the high chair.

"Wait."

I actually halt. It's Gale's voice.

"Snow told you something that you're not telling us."

I don't do anything. They know it is confirmation enough.

"We also all know that you want to talk to the Victor from 2."

He's right. We all know. But I don't understand my own motive. I don't know why I want to see him. All my thoughts he consumes. It frightens me, how easily he enters into my being, keeping me beneath rushing waters to the point I can't hear.

"You're angry about that. But we won't allow it."

"Why not?" I say, looking back at him.

Gale turns to the others. Madge comes to his defense, standing even. "Snow asked for him to remain alive. It's best not to test the treaty. And with your loathing of him…"

"You think I'll kill him."

The quiet is louder than rumbling thunder.

"I won't kill him."

"We can't be sure of that," says Haymitch, "It's one thing to say something than do another thing."

Damn it. He's speaking of my tendency to lie lately. I am going to have to lessen those if I am to gain more privileged trust from these people that I still don't depend on with my life.

"Then have a sentry nearby."

Gale begins to talk, with Madge and Cinna and Effie looking at me. Haymitch eyes the table but he's listening to me.

In the depths of cliffs, I notice it hanging there by a thread, the connection that's been severed from Gale to me, from me to Gale. But I latch on, I plead with every ounce of humanity that I have left. He knows that I need to do this, he's always known what I need to do and how I need to do it. He's continuing to stare, a pain nestling inside, forming a thorny nest.

_I have to do this._

Gale concedes. I don't need to hear him speak.

And night falls faster than love, shattering the golden brushes and pink ribbons.

The guards, including Cinna and the others, are standing by. The door is more intimidating due to its sheer size but there's no other anxiety. I enter and a familiarity washes over me, a familiarity that completely crushes me, because it frightens me, because it's something I understand.

I approach carefully. He sleeps, the clinks of chains resounding with every unconscious movement.

Then his eyes open, and his destructive smile is there, along with another side I can't comprehend.

"Hey there, gorgeous,"

My body tenses in too many ways, in disgust and arousal that it can no longer control. I mentally shake my head, remaining a few yards from him. No one can hear us. This conversation is completely private.

It's just me and him.

Like always.

"You finally got tired of being apart from me?"

"Irrevocably." I reply, unsure how I mean it.

He smiles and his eyes rape me, leaving me vulnerable and naked before his sight. He's seen me. I don't feel ashamed. I don't feel anything. It's just another part of life, being used and people could care less.

"I was told you wanted to speak with me."

"I did."

"What do you want then?"

"You,"

I kneel before him, and my hatred for him burns brighter than flaming coals. "You can go die."

He smirks and he lunges forward, his mouth finding mine before the chains keep him in place. I jump back and my hand instantly goes to slap him across the face. I do. But I leave my hand there, right upon the hot red mark.

His head moves, pressing a soft kiss in the inside of it.

"Tell me you love me."

I begin to pull back when his mouth gently grabs my forefinger, holding me in place, knowing how sharp his teeth and words can be, razors in his mouth.

"Tell me you love me."

"But you know the truth. I hate you."

"It doesn't matter. Lie to me." and the smugness, the arrogance melts, replacing this demon with a boy who has no place, who has lost it all, because of irrationality, and brute destruction. There's nothing for him; nothing to have him continue.

So I lie to him. Because, in the end, he's the only one who will ever tell me the truth.


	20. Corncrake

**AN: I APOLOGIZE PROFUSELY. Thanks to: Flandre NightShade Scarlet, sMoShFiRe, thepinkmartini, SEGAgirl82, Anne, Sweet Smiles, Dra9onf7yz, rosalieandbella014, ngochan, cherryred07, OneLiner, ileanamty, books-n-cookies, an anon, Bob-geko, Anonymous, HarlequinSongBird, ladii love, Ophianara Blade, SailorSapphire917, KatoKathy, Darlene87, esmi25, marieibay, Benevolently Cynical, TheGirlWhoHasSlytherinPride, mustangirl89, cdj88, FYInichole, Blacksash, EmeraldHearts, sidorak95, Kristen36, Willow101, Lune, Nyssa the Anime Queen, Isolde88, scoco, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, Jooheika, meghanndancer, cicadawing, those that have faved/reviewed before and my anon.**

**I AM SO SORRY FOR THE SLOWER UPDATES. Life is unkind. -_-**

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><p><em>Corncrake<em>

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><p>I manage to get to the forest, green and lush, dark and light, looking broken and beautiful in the sun that shines beams of gold. Silk that I can't touch but it warms me, yet the clouds hover, as they always do, warning that nothing lasts forever. And it's true, they don't. Because I'm set on fire when acid rain drops onto my skin, leaving the flesh red and bleeding, small wisps of smoke dancing into the sudden frigid air. I continue to walk. I pay it no attention, my feet carrying me to the screaming of my name in the distance.<p>

The crier is close to death, from the way they sound strangled. I walk into a large opening, where the grass is yellow and dead, brittle child fingers, and the voice is there.

Peeta is staring at me now, crying out to me and I rush to him but he gets farther and farther until, finally—_finally_—I reach the boy who loved me and when I pull back, so full with joy I could rupture, the relief is flooding into frozen horror as I stare into Cato's face, scarred and shining and sadistic.

"_Love me!_" the two scream, blurred images of red and gold, eyes of ice and skies yearning and clashing onto me, to trap me and to free me, reaching to embrace me, to murder me.

My shivering doesn't end for hours. My throat is still aching from screaming. Prim had taken Hyacinth to bed with her last night, and for that I'm grateful. She had offered me before but she felt that I really needed the rest and she's the only one I trust with him. I wasn't going to allow him to leave me at first but I felt I needed to be alone. It's a good thing she took him—I'd have woken him up, I would have to whisper again, for the umpteenth time that he's okay, mommy's just going crazy and she's sorry for ruining his dreams with her frights.

Pacing in the dark, since the light would bother me, I find myself thinking and pondering of nothing and everything. It's the first nightmare where both came, dying and living in my arms.

My knees are weak so I scurry to the toilet before I collapse and as I do my mouth is filling with vile acid, scorching my tongue and throat. It annoys me that I practically don't eat yet I still wind up vomiting now and again.

Everything in and about me is weak, from my legs to my heart. I walk to the window that's allowing moonlight to spill in, whiter than milk, and I'm thirsty. I need something to fill me up, so I walk to the kitchen of the vicinity, grabbing the tallest glass, filling it with water and chugging it until the last drop is in my mouth. It does the trick, filling me without the sickness I get with solids. I sit on a chair and hold my head in my hands, wondering why everything is still jagged, with no sign of pieces fitting together.

But none of the pieces are matching up—I'm too lost to find paths that will cross and lead to the same destination. I think of everyone who loves me and I wonder if I truly love them back. Am I capable of loving people? Prim was the only person before my life ended that I was certain of loving; now it includes my son. But do I truly, completely love them, flesh of my flesh, and blood of my blood?

There are thoughts sometimes with that voice, when I look at my sister, pale and perfect and pretty, and it murmurs to me, showing me images of a past, present and future that don't exist except for in my own mind: Prim, struggling to survive, naked and stark for the world to ridicule and dangle over pits; I think of what I've endured and I can't imagine her going through the same ordeal. When she holds my child, I wonder of her if she had been the girl to bear a child so young. My sister has a spirit all her own, but there's only so much she can take before crumbling.

No, I do not wish that upon my sister, who is half of me as I am half of her.

Everyone else is another story. I don't know how to comprehend all these people—people that claim they care; if they did, why did it take them so long to rescue me? My location wasn't exactly a secret to the whole of Panem. They witnessed it: my captor on their screens, tall and dangerous, robbing me of things I never thought I would be robbed of.

I sigh into my hands, feeling the warmth of my breath on hands that are far too icy. I get up and walk out, too restless to remain in spot.

"You're worried about her aren't you?"

I halt, recognizing the voice. My body automatically slides to the wall, to not get caught, whether I'm predator or prey doesn't matter—I can't be noticed.

"Of course I am. It kills me every time I look at her, all the things she's gone through."

"She's making good progress—"

"Progress? She can barely maintain eye contact without looking down after a few seconds, like she's afraid someone will literally rip into her skin. She's terrified of us. Cinna, of all people, tried to touch her yesterday and she flinched so badly she knocked herself into the wall!"

"I know," Madge says, voice rising a little, agitated, "She gets jumpy but we need to remember that this is going to take a lot of time. Like you've said, she's gone through a lot. We haven't seen her in over a year—things are going to be different."

"I understand that—what pisses me off is that there's nothing I can do to help her!"

"And you don't think it doesn't anger me to see her in so much pain, that I enjoy her misery? She's my friend too, Gale, or have you forgotten that fact?"

"No… I didn't forget."

I hear something in Gale's voice, something akin to bitterness. But to whom? To me? For not remembering how to be Katniss, the girl of District 12? Madge and Gale both sounded intense, too tired and upset by what's been going on. I lean a little, only my left eye going far enough to watch them.

Madge sighs, rubbing her fingers into her temple. She walks forward and her hands move into Gale's, holding them. He relaxes slightly, and the change, even though it's insignificantly tiny, is astounding to watch; she has control over him a little. Huh. Blonds and their control…

"What are you going to do?"

Gale pulls away leaning back against the wall, "I would like it if she continued with her medical attention, but if there's one thing Katniss will always be is stubborn. So we're going to need to find another approach involving that aspect of her stay here. What my concern is what to do about her and Cato?"

"You really don't want her to go to him."

"Who would? The thing is that what she said is right: we can't afford to kill him. Snow had specifically told us not to."

This makes no sense. I have to kill my captor but Snow told everyone else that he wants him alive.

What is that snake doing?

"Which is complete bullshit," Gale continues, "Part of the damned truce, of all things; she deserves to kill him,"

"That may be," Madge replies, voice rising slightly, "But we can't afford to break it."

"I'm ready to break the stupid thing—this whole ordeal is getting out of hand! Katniss isn't going to cooperate with him, we all know it, and the bastard won't understand that you can't have a leader who doesn't even get what's going on."

Wait.

What…?

"Oh Gale," I hear her say, and I watch as she takes him into her arms, and he begins to shake within the safety of them, leaning into her shoulder, and I'm painfully reminded of Peeta, who would often hold me in the Games, comforting me from the darkness and horrors of life.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, pulling back, his forehead brushing against hers, "I shouldn't be yelling at you."

"We need to process it all."

"We've had months to process this, Madge. It's too much…"

"I know you want to help her," she tells him, pressing her fingers upon his lips, hushing him. "You love her."

He doesn't say anything, only leaning his forehead upon her shoulder.

She takes him into her arms again, soothing gentle words, and my stomach churns, ready to heave, hating it all, hating people, hating them, hating the others, hating love.

It makes you do unspeakable, ridiculous things.

My footsteps are quiet until I find myself completely and utterly alone, and I break into a run, the echoes resounding all around me until they are the only accompaniment to my heartbeat and breathing.

I'm beyond angry, beyond rage, beyond myself. What in the world are Gale and Madge talking about? Me, a leader? A leader of what—a new world order? An elite squad to fight the Capitol? What does Snow have to do with it? Why is it always me—haven't I been burned enough?

I run faster until I'm before the door, not even recalling how I made it there. My son is safe with Prim, so I don't worry too much about him. I request the guards to allow me entrance; they oblige, always reluctant, but they do so.

I can barely get in there fast enough. It's the only place where everything is quiet, where the world is drowned out by silence. I sink to the floor, a sigh releasing itself from my chapped lips. I look up and see I disturbed him. He's just watching me, with eyes so cold and warm that I don't know what my chills really mean.

He cocks his head arrogantly, voice soft, a contradiction, "Come here."

I take my time, walking over slowly before sitting in front of him, knees pulled up to my chest.

"What's wrong with you?"

I shake my head, "Too much crap."

He tilts his own, peering into me. For the flicker of a moment, he looks concerned. "Want to elaborate?"

"I don't have to elaborate anything," I huff, glaring petulantly at him. It frightens me when he's kinder. It makes him more human to me, dashing away the monster I know him to be.

He shrugs noncommittally, "Alright, but don't blame me when you leave and you wind up not having anyone else to vent to."

I sigh, knowing he's right. He knows he's right too.

"What's wrong?" he asks again, leaning forward.

I stare at him for a while, and I wonder about him. I wonder how he can be so cruel and then kind, brutal then soft, terrifying then enlightening.

"Everything,"

He comes forward, the chains rattling, and I'm reminded of Peeta, crying in the depths of my soul.

"Tell me,"

"I can't." I reply to him, afraid of him still, the way he makes everything blurry.

He inches forward until his face is near mine, looking into frozen skies and sunshine. The nervous way he makes me tremble is peculiar, even now, and I don't comprehend anything. I find myself tearing up, from failing the people I love and don't love, from feeling helpless.

"Hey, it's all right," he murmurs to me, and my arms ache to reach for him, to hold someone solid and warm. I make them move up, digging my fingers into my hair, raking my scalp, because I can't afford to touch him and get burned in dozens of scary, lovely ways.

I rise quickly, causing the walls to spin and laugh. I'm walking to the door and I barely hear it, the whisper behind me, the sound of his voice shaking my insides and mind.

"I know it doesn't matter, I know you don't care but…"

I don't want him to say it but I want him to as well. Everything in me is screaming for him to scream and to be silent.

"I love you."

I turn to him and the way he stares makes me quiver, tighter than the bowstrings I pull.

All he's done to me rushes into the forefront of my mind—the abuse, the way he made my body yearn for filth and sex, the way he made my mind doubt its ability to think, made my soul weep and my heart die, how he'd pull me into and onto his frame and turn me into a girl that's on fire; all of him confused and bewildered me, when he did gentle sweet things that left my body weak, unguarded, and he'd pour acid into my bloodstream.

He's always in control; even with those chains holding him to the walls.

"You know I hate it when you tell me such things."

He smiles, a grin that's so genuine it feels like fire. "You did the same for me."

"You're a sick bastard."

He laughs, replacing the grin with the sadism that I'm so used to from him. "You liked it when I was rough with you, you know it,"

I shudder because he may be right about it. The disgust with me spurts into my mouth and I taste bitterness. "You hate me don't you?"

"No more than you hate me."

"That's true," I agree. The hatred burns in me.

"How is he?"

"He's none of your concern."

"I'm his father—"

"You are _not _his father!" I harshly whisper, glaring intently at him, hoping to set his frame aflame.

He laughs scornfully, baleful shards in tone and gaze, "You had the kid all on your own?"

"Look you sick asshole, he's mine—"

"He is mine too, whether you like it or not, Girl on Fire."

"He is not! He'll be nothing like you, nothing."

"What will he be?"

"He'll be a human being."

"I'm not a human being?"

"That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say—of course you're not a human being,"

"No?" he says, creeping to me and I'm glad for the chains, "I don't feel things? I don't have emotions, or wants?"

"There have been plenty of times where you've clearly proven that you're incapable of feeling anything!"

His face contorts into something so hideous it makes me hurt to look, "That's what you believe—you're always thinking you're so self-righteous don't you?"

"Self-righteous? You think this has to do with me proving myself right? You're more disgusting and awful than I ever thought you could be!"

He struggles in his chains, and he can't do anything but hurt me with words. They penetrate, but I've learned a little not to take everything he says to heart; he can't hurt me anymore than he's already done.

"What am I then, Katniss, what am I then?"

I hate when he does this—making himself appear more human; because he's not. Human beings don't hurt other human beings. "No, you're nothing but a lie,"

"A lie? How can I be a lie when I'm the only person you're sure of?" he suddenly raises his voice and my first instinct is to cower, cringe in fear, because it's hitting too close to home—when he'd make me curl into a corner and beat me senseless until I didn't feel anything but black weight pressing on me.

He's right. He's the only person I can predict, because he can be predicted with his unpredictability. Nothing and everything about him makes sense, from the way he speaks to the way he moves, acts, laughs, kisses and destroys. He's this paradox of evil and innocence, a child that loves to hurt things.

I turn to leave, listening to the sound of his chuckles.

I break into a run, because hate is one thing to face—it's something I can cling to and it'll give me power and control; love is a dangerous force that kills me, because it's so awfully selfless.

Selflessness will get me nowhere. It led to me running in this hallway, cursing love and all good things. I've never felt weaker and stronger than with the boy who robbed me of all I knew, including myself.

The question: what do I do now?

The answer: I choose the emotion that will not only be his fate, but mine. But which do I want?

I never knew it would happen to me.

Falling in love with someone I hate; because both are unspeakable in the game of death and life.


	21. Grouse

**AN: WOW, IT'S ALMOST 300. Thanks to: Ophianara Blade, sMoShFiRe, forgetmeplease, KatoKathy, TheEvilPeaches, 1234rh, Zeitgeists,xX. Belle Volturi .Xx, Dra9onf7yz, FYInichole, marulk, thepinkmartini, Mynet, Anonymous, Anne, am12325, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, scoco, A. Fire. in. the. Attic, lunalee003, londoneyedgirl, Lilac Alyssa Halliwell, axemama, i really couldn't think of a good name , radiomaniac, Ok, Miss Sugar Cane, Nosferatu523, Gillian W, dramioneeobssessed, undesirable1, etf1975, BrandyontheRocks, Loretta Lolita, baristababy, Maddie Rose, anna123, Kloie,** **Tigers Like Red Blood, shloh, killerXbunny666, touchmyhobbit, Kjane2000, sourceofmostfrustration, Cato'sSlytherinPrincess, all who have faved/alerted/reviewed before and those following in anon!**

**I AM A CRAPPY UPDATER LATELY I KNOW. I've been studying for finals and getting homework in order, along with family/friend issues. Just letting you know I haven't forgotten **_**any**_** of you or this story. Things are just chaotic right now and I'm very thankful for your patience. I tried making this longer but you've waited enough. I did MOST of this today so forgive mistakes. It's been in my head but it was the matter of finding time to write it.**

**Oh, also, sMoShFiRe created a Kato community! So if this story starts getting tedious or you'd like to find more things on this couple, or even join, talk to them about it and check it out. ;)**

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><p><em>Grouse<em>

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><p>I kill myself.<p>

Or at least attempt to.

His hands are all over me, strangling me until I can't scream or breathe or cry. When he leaves me dead and blue and black, there's something whispering to me, a harsh sound, almost like quiet screaming. I wander down bleached halls where only gray ghosts and dark shadows pass over them until I find myself in a room. There on the table is the most wonderful thing ever: nightlock.

My giddiness evaporates as quickly as it comes when I hear Prim shout to me, holding Hyacinth, calling me back.

"I can't!"

"You have to, Katniss!" she cries, "For me, for Hyacinth, for all of us!"

"No, I'm too far gone!" And it's true. My fingers ache, heavy, holding only one berry but it carries the weight of dark matter and the bleakness of the world in its fragile skin.

"Please! Katniss!" Prim is weeping and there's nothing I can do to quell the tears.

Then something twists in her face, Hyacinth letting out a howling screech, and the sounds, the words, coming from her mouth aren't my sister. But they're true. "You damned masochist! You're not in fucking love with him!"

The cry in my throat isn't released as I sit up fast in bed.

I simply sit. And sit. And sit.

_Then_ I release the wail.

I pound my fists into the sides of my head and I blearily turn to the nightstand. The pills! Where are they? My hands are trembling as they ravage through the contents of a very bare drawer. I walk to the bathroom and practically yank out the cabinet upon the wall, trying to find the pills that I take whenever I just want to knock myself out.

Nothing.

I wonder if any Avoxes have come in recently. The Capitol had illustriously provided us with many things, including 'household servants,' but I had absolutely forbade anyone and everyone from entering my room who were Capitol-born, save Effie and Cinna because they're a part of us. I'm tempted to go out and pick a fight with someone because I'm too high-strung at the moment and I need to vent it out. This is not a smart thought, which I'm close to doing, but I rein in the desire. I take in deep breaths, shaking uncontrollably. The one time I need those pills to send myself into dreamless sleep and the damned things decide to be gone.

My leg jitters on its own, toes curling in and out as I bite my nails, red and cold. Raking my fingers through my hair, tugging on it hard causes the loose strands to tangle around my digits, dark threads of brittle night. I need to stop treating my body so terribly but there's not much else I can think to do with it.

The days go by so lethargically now, long and tedious and uneventful.

There's nothing here for me.

What purpose do I have here aside from taking care of my children?

I may be free from my solitary confinement but that's beside the point. I simply do not know what to do. Rage and anger and hate gave me life in those dark moments when my body felt torn and splintered apart. Apathy is taking its place, causing me to be numb to almost every situation. My heart isn't even broken from the idea of Gale being with Madge is true. It's a little shocking, considering how he had treated her before the Hunger Games—a plague, something to be avoided or, at the very least, tolerated. To see them the way they are now…it's almost unbearable in certain ways.

My life had been stole from me for over a year. I lost all that time which I will never be able to regain. There were days when Prim may have done something wonderful; days when I could have listened to Gale speak with the fervor and passion I know he possesses; days when my mother and I could've mended our relationship; hours of being in the Hob, where everyone knows me and I know them; minutes, and seconds, and all the moments in-between where I could have had life.

He stole it from me and it pains me that, at the same time, I had life in those dark moments. I still felt pain and it made me human. I gave life in that prison cell, crying sweet wails and smelling of bloodied flowers, to the most precious little boy in the world.

The feeling of being robbed is still there however because it applies to my son as well. I don't know what he saw and did outside of the room when I was locked inside but I do know that, with me, my child saw nothing but gloom and roving black. He spent time with me in the darkness—all that suffocating, horrible darkness where it will squeeze in upon us and trap us and we'll be screaming in the mines of my mind because he's a part of me; I am nothing but a burden to my child because he's stuck with someone who will never understand the true severity of her situation.

Falling in love with a monster is an unthinkable and terribly tragedy. At least, it may be love…

There's too much in me to wonder. Love doesn't work that way and it shouldn't—I don't understand why he consumes all my thoughts, why he comes to my mind's eye when I shut them, looking arrogant at the mouth but soft in the eyes, a contradiction of everything embodying pain and comfort. He would hurt me, make my legs ache, make me wonder if he was going to break my back with the way he would make it arch, pulling and pulling until it was all I could do to cry and scream for him to stop; then, in the aftermath of rape and brutality, he'd hold me close sometimes, murmuring to me that, one day, it'll be easier. One day, the hurt will leave and it'll never come back. I'd been such a fool to believe that it could ever be completely and wholesomely true.

All of him comes spinning into my already dizzy mind—the way he smells, and breathes, and moves, and breaks. There's nothing more I would rather do to him than murder him softly and slowly. All of these conflicting desires inside of me are his fault—he does these actions to confuse, to stray me off a path that I know I'm supposed to be walking but am unsure of how to proceed; all because he won't leave me the fuck alone and he finds it hilarious to mess with my head, to completely annihilate any little ounce of humanity that I may possess. Which he needn't worry about—all of it has been wasted away during my time of capture.

In the end he really is the only thing I have that can give me an inkling of what humanity is like—to feel something, even if all the emotions are negative. My hatred of him rivals the love I have for Prim and Hyacinth, for both are equal in intensity.

The fact of the matter, however, is how the love I have for him came about. When did I even fall in love with him? When did looking at him cause me such heartache and grief but not in the typical manner I've always expected? There are still times when I daydream of cutting him into pieces so small there's nothing left—and it's not an exaggeration how often I daydream or how serious I am about the idea if it wasn't for the treaty—so the issue of falling in love with him is a huge problem.

I can't be in love with my rapist.

But I am. Aren't I?

Love is having your thoughts filled to the brim of someone special; love is never forgetting who they are deep down; love is something sacred and precious—

To hell with this, I know I'm not in love with this demon. It's a complete and total impossibility. There's nothing there to tie me emotionally or physically to this person that doesn't involve the slightest remote use of violence. All the connections to him are negative. Nothing is there with him. I'm no shining star but he's the farthest thing from the sun and life.

I walk back to the bed and throw myself upon the fancy sheets, clinging to the silk, wondering if it'll wrap me into a cocoon if I wish hard enough. It's impossible, but I want it to happen so badly….

"Katniss?" Comes my mother's voice.

I don't open the door. She's the last person I want to see and the last person I don't want to see me in this state.

It reminds me too much of how she would look and behave when my father was gone—empty, devoid of emotion, completely apathetic.

The door opens and she's entering. I make myself bite back the curse word that desires to be hurled at her, a stone meant to impale her head. We haven't been close since my father died and since the whole incident with the Hunger Games, our relationship feels irreparable.

Her footsteps are louder than my breathing. I can feel body heat near me; she's hovering over me. I feel fingers rake over my head and I flinch. Her hand withdraws; or at least stops.

"Are you doing better?"

I refuse to acknowledge her. I've become everything that she was: weak, helpless, fragile, and unwilling to face the truth—a part of me has died, the same a part of her died within the mines that day.

"I wanted to make sure you were all right. None of us have seen you in a while."

The numbness is seeping back into me; I can't hold onto the indignant anger that would often fuel me, the anger I felt towards my mother's abandonment and neglect. It's too tiring to do anything. It's too lost in me—I've lost myself within myself because there are so many pieces of me that are fighting one another: the parts that hate, the parts that love, the parts that grieve, the parts that laugh.

"Oh, honey, it's all right,"

The next thing I know is I'm being pulled into the warmth of her abdomen, soft and solid, filled out from better conditions. Her fingers rake through my hair again and she's murmuring words I don't understand because I won't understand. All I know is that she's there and I allow myself, just this once, to let her in, even if it's for selfish reasons. I don't allow her near because I feel something akin to love; I allow her there because I don't know what else to do other than weep. I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive her for all the things she's done, all the things she's never done, but I'm reminded of dark nights when she'd hold me close and tell me all was well. That she was my mother and nothing would get me—she would never leave me.

But the truth is she did leave me.

Everyone left me.

I cry all the harder and she continues to hold me, murmuring words that sound like 'I'm sorry' and 'You've suffered so much.'

After a while, I find my eyes opening, and I wonder if it was all a dream, because I'm all alone now. I make myself move off the bed and nearly collapse upon the ground. I have to make myself I haven't eaten all day, the headaches have increased, and there's still no trace of medication within sight. Annoyed, I walk out of the room, the claustrophobia shifting about me.

Walking down the halls brings me to my senses a little. It's dark outside and I walk to the window of the dining room where we eat. I nibble on some fruit, trying to savor the taste, like the old Katniss would. It doesn't make much difference to my appetite, since I realize I'm famished, but I try. I just can't eat.

I look out upon the splendor of the Capitol, watching colors upon colors walk in groups. It's a living rainbow, an awful manmade, bloodthirsty, rainbow. Even with the developments with the treaty, there still doesn't seem to be any change to their lifestyle. Which isn't too surprising; we're being accommodated very well here, but that doesn't mean the citizens of the Capitol will lose some of their privileges, even though I wish they would. I want them to know what it's like to have nothing. I want them to feel what it's like to have absolutely nothing to wear, to eat, to dream about.

But it's always the ones who are undeserving who get all they want.

In my derision of them, I spit out a string of curse words and walk out. I head to the only place where things make a little sense. The guards don't even bother to inspect me thoroughly anymore, I realize. And me without a simple kitchen knife…

I enter into the prison cell. I notice that the temperature in here has decreased somewhat but he doesn't look the least bit uncomfortable. He even looks pleased to see me and motions me over with his head. I approach with caution and sit four feet from him, watching him watch me.

"You look better today."

"You have to lie all the time on everything, don't you?" I reply.

"Who says I'm lying?"

"I do."

He sighs. "I thought we got rid of that thought yesterday."

"You know very well as much as I do that there will always be a part of me who will see you as nothing but a liar and manipulator."

He laughs and reclines, the chains rattling. I have to wonder if they ever hurt him. If anything ever hurts him...then I'm reminded of how he responded to the death of Clove, the girl tribute from 2 and how he almost seemed to grieve. I haven't seen emotion like that in a long time.

"That's what you want to think—"

"No, it's what I know."

He sighs and quirks his brow at me. "Why are you always scared of me?"

I'm not scared.

I'm not.

He's nobody—just a piece of filthy rags to me. And I'm filthier than him; I wouldn't fear something that was better than me.

Or maybe that's another possibility: fearing him because he's better than me. He would tell me that quite often—that without him there would be no purpose to me; all that would be a reminder of me would be whatever impact I left on the people who had loved me in District 12. No one would ever really remember me. And that changed with the coming of my name, the Girl on Fire, Mockingjay… am I really not me anymore?

Who am I?

"Why are you always scared of me?"

Why do I fear him? Aside from the abuse, there's nothing to fear from him. He's unpredictable, true, but all of him makes sense because of it. Then I remember the way he would take Hyacinth from me for days on end and it would tear me from the inside out, digging harsh roots into my marrow and bloodstream. He always had the ability to take my son and I would fear him due to that. He's a Victor: strong, conniving, primitive, and volatile.

Then I'll remember darker parts of the night, where I'll wake up screaming and he'll calm me down. The times when he'd allow sunlight to shatter my coal cage and reveal the interior, showing me my child, born from violence and pain, playing beautifully on the floor; and he'd join in, teaching him little things, even if they were unorthodox and manners I didn't approve of for a child his age. There was one instance where he had actually managed to show Hyacinth how to curl his hand into a fist, and he told him this is how you defend yourself; this is how you win; _this is how you survive._

And when he took Hyacinth into his arms, allowing him to wound that fist about a finger, I couldn't breathe.

Are we all just survivors in this world?

Isn't that what all of us are? We live to die and when we die we just become nothing. Mere mist that spreads and vanishes in the flicker of moments, leaving no trail of smoke upon skin; people exist for one purpose: to destroy one another.

This is our fate, forevermore.

That can't be all there is!

"Hey, what's the matter?"

I'm crouched into myself, trying to hold back the heat of tears that burn into my eyes. Why is all of this happening? Why is there so much destruction? Why don't people help each other? Why is this treaty here when all of us are still in the same position—stuck, unsure of how to carry on with our plans?

"Cato, why do you do this to me?"

I look at him from behind my hair, above my arms, and he's ghostly in the dimly lit room.

"Do what to you?"

"Why do you act like you care?"

"What makes you think I don't care?"

I'm screaming and my hands reach out for his neck. My arms are coiling around his neck, fingers in his hair, a crown of skeleton and flesh, and the look on his face is horrifying: he looks frightened.

"Stop playing games with me! What do you possibly have to gain from this?"

Something in him flickers and he's laughing, deep bass, vibrating into me, and I'm reminded of when he'd force himself into me, hard and slick, brutal and unreal. All of him is mine and all of me is his and I hate it so fucking much.

"This is about Lover Boy isn't it?"

"What are you talking about? Peeta has nothing to do with this—"

"He has everything to do with this! So long as his memory is here you'll never come to grip with it all!"

"Come to grips with what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"You can't let it go—you can't let go of what you did and loving people is the last thing you want to do—"

My heart freezes in hellfire and brimstone, attacked from all sides. Peeta is mourning inside me, telling me how I loved him and he loved me and how can I still do this to him? Why must I hurt everyone?

"Loving people has nothing to do with anything!" I shout at him, gripping him by the collar, digging my digits so hard into his chest that they hurt. "What do you know of it? You're incapable of feeling anything!"

"But I am not stupid!" he shouts back, snickering, eyes narrowed, looking evil and elated, "You refuse to think of that part of you don't you—that you were the cause of his death and love terrifies you."

My hand strikes him across the face and memories flood into me, when he would do that to me, how I would long to return it back, and now that I can, now that I do, the relish of it isn't as potent as I thought it would be. It just drains me and my anger is suddenly fueled. He made me weak. He's lying to me again. I don't regret anything about anyone.

"Tell me! What games are you still doing?"

"Girl on Fire, there are no games except the major one happening. You think I'm an idiot—there's so much more going on in the world and you can't even see it because you're too blind to notice."

"Blind? Blind to what?"

"How Snow wants you to kill me and you won't do it because you love me."

"I'm not in love with you!" My fingers tighten into his hair and as the palpitations of my heart reach a frightening symphony, his voice is loud again, mirth pouring out into my skin, and there are tears running down his cheeks onto mine, joining with mine; my hands immediately go to his throat because I can't stand the look of pain on his face, similar to mine and every other damned individual that was born into the country of the dead—

There are people opening the door, I hear them; footsteps are peals of thunder that clamor around me and I realize the way it looks—that I'm going to kill the person that the treaty was created for, and I don't care. I want to kill him and my fingers squeeze—

"No, let her do it!"

"Let me kill him!"

I want to kill him. It's the best thing for everyone if I put him out of his misery, if I put myself out of my misery. Nothing can move forward so long as he's here—chained to me, chained to my mind, chained to every little miniscule detail that radiates from my breathing. Love is the farthest thing I can ever feel for him; you don't love people who are cruel to you and that seems to be the only logical explanation for all the things I am doing for him, for all the things I _refuse_ to do to him.

But damn it I want to murder him!

My heart is screaming, Peeta is screaming, and I'm making my way back to my captor, dragging the men who are pulling me back. Appendages hit me because they are losing control of me, and they don't know how to respond so they use violence. Ha! Isn't that what all of us do? Resort to the worst, lowliest methods? I'm no better but I can admit that. Everyone here is a stupid hypocrite and they can all burn for it.

They are taking him from me and I'm weeping from being torn apart from this man that confuses me, that makes me question all around me, that gave me the gift of life in my son—the child who shows me light in the dark—and gives me all the answers to the questions around me. People want to use us for something and I don't know what it is. Gale and Madge, Cinna and Effie, Haymitch and my mother, Prim… no one will tell me. They may not know the full extent of Snow's intentions either—because he says one thing in honey and another in venom.

Arms encase me, dragging me away. I dig my heels into the tile, trying to go back, because my arms ache to hold him until he dies in them, they ache to hold someone close who may have the key to understanding all the snippets of memory and dreams that taunt me when I'm awake. I want to remember what it's like not to be used, I want to remember freedom; I want to remember what it's like to sing. Peeta urges me to but my mouth is drier than sand, and he weeps for me because I can't.

They're holding the Victor down too. The screams and curses out of his mouth remind me of grotesque beasts; he's writhing on the ground, crying, shouting for people to leave him be. That he wants to kill himself.

We're different breeds he and I, compared to the rest of the world. We're people who hate another but who can understand us better than each other? We don't know how to let go of hatred, we don't know how to love, we don't know how to survive in this world where we're all being lied to and no one seems to be annoyed by this.

We're crying for help and no one hears.

Oh, this doesn't remove all the yearning, the sensual longing I crave to have to annihilate him; he's done all of this to me, to himself, and I'm no different. We're monsters of our own making.

There's flashing and the air crackles, sparks with living energy. He's screaming into the air that heats up from the electricity, rods held straight into his chest—

"No!" I scream, because I don't want him to die. I'm supposed to kill him. Snow said so. I said so. Who are these people to take what's rightfully mine? I am his and he is mine and my soul is the only one that can kill his and the world will make sense again and I can finally die in peace—

"Katniss, calm down!" I hear Gale tell me, holding me back. I catch the scent of heavy whisky and Haymitch is there, murmuring into my ear not to make a bigger spectacle than I've already done. Cinna is here too, offering me the support no one else can give, offer the empathy that I only feel from when I need it most. Madge watches me squirm and writhe in the arms of her lover that would've been mine had things gone differently; my mother holds her hands to her breasts, saint-like, silent tears streaking onto porcelain skin. Prim is looking at me like the sister that will never be, because the old Katniss is gone and she finally realizes it.

Hyacinth is weeping because nothing around him makes sense either.

I pity my son the most because his life revolves around those who can take care of him.

And he's got the worst parents in the world.


	22. Dove

**AN: I'M SO SORRY. Thanks to: dramioneeobssessed, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, KatoKathy, axemama, Kristen36, sMoShFiRe, thepinkmartini, LuciferB, srslyjulia, Alis-May, Dra9onf7yz, CreativeWr1ter, Ophianara Blade, Nel, Nigthawk, Tenkoi, SEGAgirl82, FP, GrassHopper-Or-Scorpion, populardarling, Jakob With A K, Atala Embers, ChocolateSoda67, Cassis Blake, lightwingsx3, Audria, oteaoni, Orange Pudding, Mortebella24, GothenburgGirl, Nissy Padfoot, XsapphireXeyesX, Chi Yagami, those that have added/reviewed before and my anon! And a huge thanks to people that review/fave/alert the one shots as well! :D**

**School's done until the 11****th**** of June (summer school, blegh) but I will do my best to keep this going. And the crap mentioned before is still ongoing; thank you to those who expressed concern. *hugsandkisses***

* * *

><p><em>Dove<em>

* * *

><p>"This can't keep going on."<p>

I lay with my mouth shut.

"Many of the people here, me included to be honest, are concerned and disturbed by how you're getting attached to this boy."

I'm quiet.

"You can talk about this, you know. You're safe here."

I'm not safe anywhere.

"It's all right."

It's not all right. I'm not safe anywhere at all. If I cannot escape the fabrications of my own mind, what makes people think a room will be any better?

"You're going to be difficult again."

There's that damned word again: difficult.

People don't know what difficult means.

Me throwing a temper tantrum or whatever is not, nor should it be, the equivalent of difficult.

Difficult is losing everything and everyone I love; difficult is learning to let go; difficult is learning to change; difficult is learning how to be nobler; difficult is learning how not to kill myself; difficult is learning how to love; difficult is learning how to be at peace; difficult is not losing myself in an illusion; or becoming disillusioned.

"This is a problem only you can fix, however, and I can only do so much for you."

Good. I didn't ask for your help, genius.

"You know where the door is."

I practically bolt.

The sun decides to destroy my eyes the moment I walk out into its fierce arms and gaze. The people of the Capitol rendezvous with all the nonchalance of morons. They walk about, decked to the fullest with colors and pastels and labels of fabric that I can only conjure up in my mind. It's my first time out in the world in months.

I'm not sure how to deal with that.

An odd taste is filling my mouth as I continue down the glimmering pavement. There's a ringing in my ears as I walk down the street, looking at monsters walk alongside me and I imagine teeth tearing into me—I think I actually see a person maliciously grin at me and it's all I can do from screaming and falling to the ground prostrate. A little bit of bile rises into my throat and its acidic mixture is hard to swallow back down but I manage. Everything's too big and too bright and too loud. Why can't I be back inside where I don't have to worry about anything? Maybe I'm just tired but I'm always tired. I don't need a psychiatrist, I need a doctor but being with anyone from the Capitol is the last thing I want.

I look back to the psychiatric ward that I just stepped out of. It's not exactly a place that many in the Capitol go to. Life here is perfect, painted in red and reflective glass. There's nothing to go on about to people that get paid to know your mind to tell you what you want to know about yourself. The people here eat, defecate, murder, and go to sleep after much sex and partying and other euphoric events. I'm giving the psychiatrists here a little bit of a show.

I discovered from Effie, who arranged this little meeting in hell, that learning the power of the mind is still a pursued profession, but not to the degree as to what it was before the Dark Ages. It makes sense though that people would want to learn about the mind. Tracker Jacker venom, the dogs that resembled the fallen Tributes, the sounds of listening to people scream—all of these things are meant to break the mind and shatter it to irreparability. The Games in the arena aren't just of a physical nature, I learned, while in there. It's also about making sure one guards their mind; because it is the very last thing, besides one's life, that should be lost.

I see Gale sitting on a bench, dressed in simple pants and a shirt.

"How'd it go?"

I don't say anything to him either. I haven't spoken to anyone in days, literally. I murmur things to Hyacinth and Prim because they're exceptions to the rule. I respond to people with nonverbal gestures and cues, but I do not speak. An Avox of my own making. There's this numbness in me that I can't quite explain without losing my tongue, becoming heavier than lead. I don't understand why I'm numb, therefore, explaining it to people who don't know what's going on in my head will not help anybody much.

"Well, we should be heading back to the facility."

I don't like that he uses 'facility' but it may as well be one. It's a nice building, now that I've seen it from the outside with my own eyes, and it's roomy in there, but beneath are winding pathways that lead and cross and zigzag and overlap beneath the building. It's a sort of headquarters, right below unsuspecting Capitol citizens. Perhaps 'facility' is an appropriate word after all. It's definitely suffocating down there. I hadn't known that we were so far below the ground in the Capitol's very own prison cells, where, apparently, they can accommodate as rooms too. It's hard going to the elevator now that I know we're going so far beneath the earth. My breath is shortening from anxiety and I try not to let it show.

Gale always knows though and he takes my hand, gently leading me in a case of death, and holds onto my hand until the elevator ceases movement. His thumb is stroking the back of my hand and I relax a little. I may be angry with him and he may be angry with me but, thankfully, we know one another well enough to personally shove pride aside and allow something akin to friendship get out.

The elevator opens and we both step outside. He lets go of my hand and we walk in tense silence to the dining room. There, Haymitch, Cinna and Effie are sitting about the table, talking in low tones. When I arrive in, Cinna greets me warmly, while Effie and Haymitch nod. I smile at them all, because I feel as though I should. It's not their fault that my mind is so warped.

"How did it go with the psychiatrist?"

I shrug. There was really nothing to say. I've been going to see this person for a full week and I haven't spoken to them once. I don't see the point in telling a complete stranger anything about myself.

Effie sighs. Haymitch drinks his spirits, looking between the two of us. Cinna doesn't do anything either except look at me. Effie and I haven't been getting much along lately. She probably means well but she's becoming pushy in the mending process of my mind and body. As if this kind of thing can be rushed…

But what exactly are we rushing? The restoration of my health is already a concern for those in the medical clinic. Despite the lubricants and creams and pills, nothing seems to be taking a good effect. They've managed to numb parts of my body, parts of my brain when I'm awake and asleep, but they've yet to find the root of it all that triggers all the pain in me. It bothers Cinna and the others that I still sometimes bleed horrified screams in the middle of the night, my back aching, bruises forming on my skin where no one and nothing had touched it. The pain between my legs had managed to diminish but the doctors continue to apply medicine to me and give me prescriptions to minimize the pain when I walk.

I hear the door slide open and watch Prim walk into the room. She locks her eyes with mine, a shy smile delicately blooming upon her features, Hyacinth in her arms. I reach for my child and my heart flutters with warmth only he can produce, radiating into me. I hold him close to me, watch him grab a fistful of my hair and suckle on it. I pull the end of my braid out and playfully tap the end of his nose. Giggles bubble to the surface of his lips and I kiss the bottom of his chin, blowing raspberries lightly on his belly, increasing the peals of laughter. I make sure not to overdo it—babies are incredibly fragile and even breathing hard may cause them pain, no matter the source, no matter if it's supposed to be good or not.

Gale walks over to me and he sits. Hyacinth looks at him with Seam eyes, and, to my surprise, he reaches for him. This perturbs me, thinking back to the dream of the Gale who would never hurt a child willingly in his life, where he slammed my little one against the metal wall. Gale looks into my face, into my eyes, asking for silent permission. I reluctantly agree, only because Hyacinth is squirming, curious about this newcomer.

It bothers me a little, looking at Gale hold Hyacinth. I've never been this close in their interaction with one another. Gale holds him in both arms, cradling the bottom of his head with strong, powerful, darkened hands. Hyacinth doesn't seem to mind, reaching out to touch the things that are out of reach. He giggles suddenly and something lights up in Gale's features, the brooding becoming brighter, eyes flickering, stones that strike and make sparks. Hyacinth's golden hair clashes beautifully and oddly against the olive skin of my best friend who I lost.

I don't like the way it looks.

But I should.

Yet I don't.

Gale would make an excellent father. It never crossed my mind that he would not be—he's much more jovial and cordial than he lets on; it's just that it's only with people he knows. We've both lost fathers, lost many things, thus there's this tendency to hold many people at bay for as long as possible, no matter how important they are, no matter what period.

It would be wonderful to see him have children of his own. Madge already adores him so much—that much is obvious and it doesn't feel platonic, to me anyway; and if it winds up not being her, then he'll find someone else—his looks have always attracted that kind of attention and it won't be hard in the least.

His looks. Dark and tall and handsome, as the saying goes. My child is the very paradox of Gale in physical characteristics.

I think of my father. How I knew him, how I loved him, how I held him tightly, how he came to die and how I wept and wept and wept that I lost my best friend, confidante, guardian and loving father all in one swift dark moment of coal dust.

It's awful losing a father.

Gale must understand.

I understand this.

"Gale, I want to ask…"

My voice is a murmur. He turns and strains ears to me. I hear Haymitch talk about how I finally speak. I ignore the jab building in me.

"Can Hyacinth see his father?"

There are instantly shouts of objection but Gale remains quiet. He searches my soul as he always could and can and will. I wait there, as patiently as I've ever done.

"You can."

My heart is skipping beats.

It's just skipping and skipping and dying and dying. We were allowed to see him later in the day but it got to the point where I couldn't wait anymore, because the anxiety was building. Hyacinth is cradled in my arms, tugging on my braid, fingers burying into the threads of hair. The guards at the door are tenser than ever—it's one thing for me to venture in alone, but bringing in my child is a matter of something different entirely.

When the door is opened and I step inside, I see him sleeping, leaning back against the wall. The chains that once bound him are tighter, judging from the uncomfortable position that he's sleeping in—head low, chin digging into his chest. He's lost weight since he's been here and something in me stirs—because thinness meant starvation and starvation is what the Capitol does to the people who live in Panem.

I'm going to have a word with whoever is feeding him.

I approach slowly and kneel before him. Before my knee even touches the ground, his eyes open and he looks at me, quiet and tired and another thing I cannot place. He smiles then and his fingers twitch, looking at the child who is staring at him with wide curious eyes.

He doesn't need to say anything. I come nearer, bringing Hyacinth closer to the face of my captor. Hyacinth whimpers and I wonder if it was a terrible idea bringing him here. He hasn't seen my captor in a long while—it's been a little over five months since our rescue. But, surprisingly, the softest of whispers is coming out of my tormentor, and his lips gently skim over Hyacinth's forehead. It's amazing—the transformation; suddenly, Hyacinth is cooing, inching forward, fingers splayed over Cato's massive chest, looking frail and vulnerable in the arms of a murderer of children.

It's almost… _perfect_.

Nagging begins to take over my mind but I push it back. Even if he wasn't bound by chain and defeated ego, he would not hurt Hyacinth. Something in me _know_s this—it knows and understands and accepts this fact of _life_. Hyacinth will probably never be in stronger, safer arms. But that's what worries me. Cato and I are highly unstable people—we don't know anything of what's going on; he's here, locked away from the world, and I am in that world that he should be in—I shouldn't be in that world because I do not get it at all. The Capitol was made for people like him—where individuals are colored and fleshed out through fake frilly things and blood drains in the streets.

Our positions should be reversed. It would make everything so much simpler to take.

"He's gotten stronger," says Cato, watching Hyacinth crawl and nestle into his lap. "His fingers really dig into your skin when I don't expect it to."

"He has been getting bigger too."

"Has he been eating?"

"Yes."

"Good. He'll need to be strengthened for the arena one day—"

"How dare you say such things?" I hiss, glaring at him.

"It's a fact of life, Katniss." He tells me, eyes burrowing into my being, "You know this."

"But things can change—"

"Katniss, this is the Capitol we are talking about," he says to me intensely, and the force of it, the weight of his eyes treading into my every nerve, is unnerving itself. He may as well be touching me with the way he's looking at me; I can imagine his fingers brushing back my hair—intense but soft.

"I don't trust the Capitol either, but to say that my son will be a contender in the Games is crossing the line,"

"I can't help but be pessimistic," he answers, "I'm not exactly seeing justice being taken place in this cell. Now am I?"

The way he puts it, he makes us sound like the bad ones. Like we're the ones who take people against their will and turn them into sadistic personal slaves; he doesn't deserve any kindness, and I take back the thoughts I had of him needing to be fed, of being broken, of him being locked away in here. I shove all those things of sympathy into a corner and try to drown them in bitter feelings. I cannot afford to think like that.

"That's your own damned fault."

"I didn't get in here on my own."

"You may as well have."

"Because I took you for myself, is that it?"

"And more!" I attempt to keep my voice from shouting but it comes. Hyacinth jerks and he seeks shelter in the body of my captor, nuzzling into it. After he whispers some encouraging words to Hyacinth, my son comes out and decides to go venture in the corner of the cell, looking at the chains, fingers trying to reach.

"This is because of Lover Boy."

"No, it's not!"

"You know it's your fault that he's dead. We never finished this discussion."

"There's nothing to discuss!" I say, flushing.

"That's your problem, Girl on Fire, but you and I both know that he didn't die on his own. You sold him out to me; you _led_ him to me—"

"I never did such a thing to Peeta!"

"He loved you and you allowed him to love you—that's why he's not here and you could've dissuaded it at any time, but you were selfish and desperate to live, so you let him sacrifice himself for you and your needs."

"It's not true!"

He smirks; it's the smile that means my death, "Yes it is and you know it. Would he have _willingly_ kneeled before me and allowed me to stab him just because he_ liked_ you? No, that love he had for you clouded his thinking and you let it be clouded."

Oh no… he's right. Peeta would have done anything for me and I didn't even… I didn't…

"He made me promise not to kill you, you know," he says, of a sudden.

I'm standing now so I have to turn to look at him. "What are you talking about?"

"When he and I were fighting, he told me that he wouldn't fight. He would let me kill him so long as you lived. It was a very simple deal and I killed him instantly."

"What…?"

His grin widens, "But he never said I couldn't do other things to you. I let you live."

The world is bleared by red and Hyacinth is crying when I circle my hands around my captor's throat, and he's laughing horribly, face twisted. When Hyacinth's crying increases, his face looks a little normal and he curses me for making our child cry. I don't care at the moment—Hyacinth doesn't understand; he's just a baby, sadly, born to us: a boy who has lost his mind yet doesn't care and a girl who's maddened at losing hers.

"You're scaring the baby," he says.

"I don't care," I tell him but my reserve slackens and so do my fingers. The last thing that needs to happen is Hyacinth to witness a murder. But I want to accomplish what Snow set me out to do, now, more than anything. Vengeance has to be here somewhere, in my captor's skin, in his dead eyes, given to me from myself because I'm so angry.

People are pulling me away from him and I let it happen. A woman is reaching to take my son and I shove her aside, straight into the wall. No one interferes because they know that, in the worst and best of times, he's the only one who makes sense in my crazy upside down world.

When I enter into the hallway, Gale is there, arms outstretched and I don't wait to run into them. I sob into his chest, allowing emotions and too many nightmares and dreams to spill into his chest.

My body is twitching violently when I get to my room, and I let Prim take Hyacinth out. My chest is in pain, discomfort coursing throughout my body, and the pain between my legs is suddenly intensified, and I'm seeing horrible bloodied images behind my eyelids when they shut.

Am I losing my mind for real? I thought I was far gone already!

Am I going crazy?

Is there nothing I can do to save myself from my own hauntings?

I cry into the pillow, screaming and screaming. I cannot believe that… what he said, about Peeta.

Peeta; my beloved Peeta…the cause of my pain, of my rape, of my insanity?

No.

He has to be lying.

Peeta is many good beautiful things. How can he possibly…?

No, he didn't know. He couldn't have possibly known the outcome of what would happen to me. He must've thought that I would be allowed to live and that is that. He had nothing else in mind but my own safety—my protector until the very end.

And I betrayed him.

For all the kisses, and cold nights wrapped together, and all the sweetened words and honeyed gazes, nothing could not have saved him from the tragedy of what loving me could and did bring—I killed him, too, and it's time I accepted that.

Damn it, Peeta…

He should never have loved me.

The pain in me is breaking me apart and nothing I do can repair the shattered pieces. I hear footfalls all around me, hushes murmurs in the room, but I'm normally alone and I make certain I'm alone.

Oh, God, and my son…! He needs a mother who is strong enough to protect him and love him from the dangers in this world. And he's stuck with me—a sniveling, spineless, good for nothing coward, who blames everyone but herself.

I feel as though is payback for all the times I wished I could hurt my mother for abandoning Prim and I. All those times when I should've let go of the hurt and allowed myself to forgive the one parent I have left in the world, and I refused to do it. Now my son is suffering the consequences of my decisions, of my own neglect to the woman who had been hurting and no one had truly bothered to reach in and pull her from the abyss.

Hyacinth deserves a mother, deserves a father, and deserves family that isn't broken by hatred.

The night has come and it's fallen heavily. The hallways feel colder and I walk on bare feet, treading silently, listening the thumping of my heart and the screaming in my head.

I stop before a door and knock, waiting for the recipient to answer.

Madge opens the door, looking lovely and hued in health, perfectly normal, save for the indicated dark rings below her eyes. She looks surprised to see me and that's nothing to be shocked about. She and I don't normally talk.

"Is Gale there?"

She blushes and Gale comes to her side. So that's what the voices were. At least I didn't interrupt anything…_important._

"I need you to do something for me," I say.

Gale sighs, exasperation coming out in it but I don't blame him. Whenever I ask for a favor it normally ends in disaster.

"Yes, Katniss?"

"From now on, I want Hyacinth to be in your care."

The silence hangs, their mouths agape and I'm tempted to pull back my offer. I do not want to do this but I have to. For my son.

"What…" Gale says, looking at me and pulling me into the room, his hands, strong and warm, gripping my shoulders. The look on his face says he would like to touch mine but with Madge only a yard away, it's likely he won't. And I didn't want him to.

"Hyacinth needs people that can take care of him properly. I am in no condition to do it."

"But, Katniss—" Madge begins but I cut her off.

"I know what you're going to say. I am his mother, and I need to think of what's best for him. And I am not the best for him—I am too unstable to even care for him properly. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I'm anxious every day and my body gets weaker with each moment. He cannot have that kind of person taking care of him."

Madge and Gale glance at one another. She approaches me and touches my back. The question is hanging in the air, their inquiry of _why them_ of all people.

"I don't know who else to turn to."

Madge leads me to the bed and I sit in the plush velvet. "Katniss, you've put much thought into this. But you'll still see him, yes?"

"Yes, I can't bear the thought of being far from him and I want him to know me. The amount of time with me, though, will have to be minimized. My condition is too strenuous for a child his age—nothing good comes out of it, and he loses sleep because I lose sleep." I feel tears begin to sting but I hold them back. If I cry they may not consent. Everyone, including myself, believes that Hyacinth is mine and should remain with me but how can that possibly be when I'm a miserable human with no proper functioning?

Gale comes and kneels in front of me. "We'll take care of him."

"Thank you," I whisper, feeling a weight lift yet another stone of loneliness descends into my heart. "And there's another thing I need to discuss with you."

They remain quiet, giving me their full attention.

"How is the communication with Snow coming?"

Another glance is exchanged between them and a little flare of anger burns. How much have I not been told these past couple of months? The last thing I remember hearing when I accidentally eavesdropped on them was how I cannot lead a rebellion.

"I need answers."

Gale scratches the back of his neck and sighs. "The thing is we do communicate and all is well, but I still don't trust him, even with this treaty. Nothing is happening—not an outcry or a rouse of fighting—because that Victor from 2 is the enemy of the nation. There have been plenty of instances for an execution in public—"

—_what?_ My heart freezes—

"—however many of us feel that since he's locked up, killing him isn't really necessary. Snow said this himself."

"Gale, tell her the other thing." Madge prods and I look at him, waiting.

"Katniss, the truth is all of us want this to end, even the treaty. Nothing is moving forward and it's just a stalemate between two pieces that _want_ to fight. The treaty may only be so long. It's just another method of control that the Capitol is using, even if _we're_ the ones who are holding the cause of the rebellion in captivity. We're surrounded by Capitol citizens every day and we're all worrying about how, at any moment, Snow can just kill us and nothing will have truly changed."

He stares at me intently, perceiving my face, looking into me.

"In other words, you need me to lead."

He doesn't hesitate. "It's the only logical move we have right now."

It makes sense. I'm many things to this country: the Girl on Fire, the Mockingjay, a martyr, a victim of abuse, a Victor, a possession of all. People will follow if I make the right impression using these positions. Some won't, mainly the Capitol, but I have that advantage—dying for a noble cause does something to people.

Madge interjects, "But you don't need to make a decision yet, Katniss. You just said yourself that you need time to recover from all the abuse that's happened to you—"

"But maybe this can help me," I tell her, wondering. "My mentality is off and I'm not in the best condition but if I trained…"

"We need you to be healthy though, Katniss—" Gale begins.

"No! That's the thing, I'm never going to get better and it's time I realized that. That's why I am giving Hyacinth to you."

"Would you endanger the life of your child?" asks Madge.

She's right. It would kill me. I cannot lead a rebellion, I cannot get stronger, I cannot face the persecution of the most powerful force in our country if I am worrying about Prim and Hyacinth, the two people I love most.

"Isn't there a place where I can have him and Prim safe? Anywhere that the Capitol can't touch them?"

Their quiet is unnerving.

"Tell me!" I suddenly shout and they jump back, looking at me with wariness.

My body is shaking and they reach out slowly to me, trying to calm me down but I insist that they tell me or they can forget about the Mockingjay.

"There is a safe place for Hyacinth and Prim. It's District 13."

I freeze, unable to comprehend. "That's not possible. District 13—"

"Is weak, but alive," Gale says, hand on mine, "It's not a thriving community but they did manage to help us during the rebellion when you were gone."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"They made us swear that we wouldn't tell you about District 13 until we retrieved you. But when we got you back…"

Madge comes closer and sits by me, "When we got you back, you were in no condition to know about 13 and when we told them about you, they agreed, changing the terms to us telling you about it when you asked more questions about the rebellion and the possibility of war."

"So it's only now that I know? How could you lie to me?"

"We weren't lying!" Gale exclaims, eyes intense, stones that are crying out to mine, "But… we had to get you, which was the main thing of our agreement—to use their resources and they can come back up from underground."

"Does Snow…?"

"Snow is well aware of 13's involvement with the rebels. When we had said all of the districts had rallied up against him, excluding 2, we meant _all_ of them."

"Why didn't they come to the aid of the other districts before?"

"They have technology, means of surviving that we still aren't sure of how they got, but their numbers are still small compared to the rest of the districts. Some of us from 12 went to 13. That's where my mother and my siblings have been."

I look down at my hands, covered with Gale's, latching onto me. All of this is too much to take in but I've made up my mind. Things have got to change. This treaty is as Gale says—it's nothing but a stalemate. Snow is lurking in the shadows of all the people in the world and none of us are catching his motives. He tells me to kill Cato but tells the others to let him live; he allowed 13 to continue to survive, likely under the pretense of faking their demise in order to not be obliterated.

I put my head in my hands, the voices in me screaming and Peeta is crying because nothing is making sense—there's so much going on, the lies and the deceit and the tears and the pain, they're all blurring into one another until there's nothing but millions of children crying from the grave to show me the injustice done, the injustice I helped cause. Whether or not I was a victim doesn't matter in the least—the fact is I had a role in this as much as Snow, as much as the Capitol, as much as Cato; Peeta loved me and I had grown to love him and that love destroyed the whole world as we knew. Love never saves anything; it only brings a wake of wrath.

"I know it's a lot to take in…" Madge whispers, holding me near.

I let out a shudder at the warm contact.

"I want to talk to Haymitch."

We head to his chambers and rouse Cinna and Effie and my mother as well.

Haymitch isn't sure how to respond, I think, to my sudden character development into a woman who wants to fight. And it's true. I jitter and fuss over anything; I can barely brush my own hair without random spasms happening in my nerves and the pain between my legs, while it dulls, is still there.

"You're sure that you want to go through with this?"

"Yes, I am sure."

"All right then. Everyone, our leader's finally roused from the dead."

Or I'm still dead and no one knows that they're following me to the tomb.

But this is my final decision. I'm sick of doing nothing. I can't allow my own weaknesses to get the better of me—not anymore. There's so much on the line. Time has continued without me while I've been trapped in an hourglass. It's time I broke through and stepped into the moving living reality that is the world.

"Hyacinth and Prim will be taken care of in 13," I say.

"Of course," replies Haymitch.

"But there's another matter here. Hyacinth is under the care of Madge and Gale now. They'll need to be transferred there as well."

"What?" barks Gale, suddenly towering over me and I see my mother rise from her chair, her eyes narrowing at the scene.

Madge, too, is looking at me in shock. "I don't understand… Katniss, we're essential to the core of the rebellion—we can't just stay in 13!"

"You will. You made a promise to me that you will take care of my son and Prim will be with my mother in 13. This was the deal we made, remember? This very night, or have you forgotten that fact?"

"This is ridiculous! I will not be in 13 when there's a war to be done!" Gale shouts and I pierce him with a glare. It's just like Gale to be rash and ready to battle. He may have a part to be done but he can do it in 13.

"You promised me! Both you and Madge said that you'll take care of Hyacinth and I thought it meant that you would do so. Don't tell me you're lying to me about this, too? I've been in the dark for months and no one had bothered to tell me anything of what's been going on—do you think this is fair for me? Did you really think I was that fragile?"

"It's not that were, it's that you _are_! You _are_ fragile, you admitted this, and you need to get over yourself! You're going to be the face of the rebellion and nothing more; why should we be on the sidelines while you go and fight a war that you were held captive for?"

"Because this is all my fault!"

"How in the hell is this your fault? You didn't plan this to happen—none of us did!"

"But it was caused by me!" I can't explain to them why—they wouldn't understand the bonds that are tightened between Peeta and I, between Cato and I. It's too complicated for people who are out of the dark. I've been in it and I know what hides in there. They've dealt with their own darkness that has come from my inner torment and I need to sever them from that.

"Katniss… this…"

Madge walks to me, and the shine in her eyes brightens them, tears making them bluer.

"You promised me. He needs parents that he can rely on. I'm not it." I murmur and the room is hushed.

Madge embraces me and I look at Gale, who looks petrified, who looks vengeful.

"We did. We'll get ready to take care of Hyacinth."

And for the first time in many lifetimes I smile in relief. The people I love will be far from the war, far from the blood. I can't save myself, I may not be able to save others, but I can prolong suffering, I can aid the children closest to me. They've risked and fought everything to rescue me from the black I was trapped in. I've finally done something right and they won't break their promise to me. They pity me too much.

It's time I faced the darkness I created.

And my captor will be the one to guide me. Who knows darkness better than the dark?


	23. Raven

**AN: NO, I TAKE FOREVER NOW. MY BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE, THANKS: Tally Jennifer Youngblood, ngochan, Nissy Padfoot, It's rose hun, bchampagne, sundragons9, Alice The Walker, catie8, odesta, ElizabethJT, Icehawk12, thepinkmartini, Cato'sSlytherinPrincess, Trelaney, Candiordo, Volunteer Tribute, theLilyflower, kunohara, Alexabee, Shoney, dreamsnhugs, 408934, wjjmwmsn5, those who have added/reviewed/alerted before and my anon. God, I am so sorry! I was out of town for what felt like FOREVER and this time I couldn't bring my laptop. Please forgive me! I hope the events in this make up for it. ;_;**

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><p><em>Raven<em>

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><p>The people I love are gone with the dawn, escaping on the wind, but, in truth, I am leaving them behind. For where I am heading, no one can come with me. The darkness is seeping around the world and I had to send them to the light.<p>

I had watched them until they were nothing in the horizon, the sun engulfing them in bright rays. Prim had given me endless hugs when I had told her what needed to be done and I hugged my mother before she could even step toward me. I had failed so often in making amends with her, and who knows when I'll see her. I wanted to tell her I loved her too, that I had been a fool for a long time, that I should've been kinder but all she did was smile and place her palm against my face.

Perhaps she always understood.

Madge and I exchanged goodbyes with little to no interaction until the actual departure, when she embraced me tightly and murmured, "Come back to us."

Gale said the same to me but with his eyes. They smoldered, becoming coals within darkened skin and hair. His fingers had trailed into my hair, and I fought back the flinches that were threatening to cause me to shudder. My skin crawled and I couldn't tell from dread or want. He was so quiet, just staring into me, and Peeta was weeping within me, my heart breaking. And in the distance, where my mind was losing itself, my captor howled with all the rage of a wounded creature, objecting and fighting me to fight the desire floating in me. I never imagined being completely in love with Gale but I do love him, I love him too.

But I fear all mankind, for they are people I do not understand.

That's why when he kisses me I don't move. Anxiety is building along my need to be wanted and the shakes in my body worsen until I collapse in his arms and he strokes my hair, whispering apologies and sweet words that drip into my soul.

I look up at him, all beautiful and kind. "Love my children. And love Madge. Love her for me."

The stones don't shatter; they harden with determination and he kisses my forehead, sincerity in his voice, in the rumble of his chest. I know he'll keep his promises. "I promise." He said and I wept in too much emotions.

Saying goodbye to my son was the hardest thing to do. I am not sure how much he understands but when I held him to my breast, my head bent into his frail shoulder, the scent of innocence and skin filling my nostrils, I heard him whimpering and he tugged upon my braid. I attempted to loosen his hold but they tightened, not like usual, where his fingers can be pried. The hold was strong and I desperately wanted his fingers to remain where they were—weaving into my hair, my heart, my being. How could I give up the most precious light in the world?

But I had to so I did, placing him in the arms of his protectors.

I've been lying on this bed for hours, weeping inconsolable tears. The people allowed me, for they know that while I may be losing it, I love my son and they do not rush me. This act of courtesy softens me a little towards them but I know that they are merely following the orders of others, not really caring what becomes of me. The fact is I'm still just a piece in a game that's set for larger more valuable players. I am a pawn that has, somehow, been given the power of a queen and the power in that position is unfathomable to me, even frightening.

I yearn for the darkness of sleep but it eludes me, settling me into a physical and mental darkness that feeds into my emotions.

The days blur by into a mixture of time and lack of it. The people here urge me further to eat, for I am going to need all the strength I can get. It proves to be quite a challenge, stomaching down anything for long periods of time, because it always seems to want to come back up; the medication doses increase and decrease according to the day, the amount of the other drugs I am taking interfering with other ones, my physical activity, my mental functioning, my emotional ruts and hills—every little pill is given in a certain amount and they are adamant about me taking them. Cinna does his best to cheer me up and he usually manages a smile out of me but that is as far as it gets and he does not push it because he understands me; he may be from the Capitol but he is nothing like the rest of them.

I am sent back to the psychologist for one more session and I leave there as I went in: silent and uncooperative but I believe that the psychologist finally grasped that I would never be able to share with them the hurt that I had been in, the depths of molten tar that had burned away my flesh and seared through my body. However, the psychologist did wish me well and even patted my shoulder, sending me off on something I cannot even imagine.

I decide that I don't know how to like or dislike that person; so I'll do the next best thing—forget them.

Haymitch and Effie keep up the cordiality of their little relay messages to Snow, being formal and clean, subtle and quiet. Snow does not appear to suspect a single thing but he has been underestimated before, considering the amount of damage that the Capitol had done by revolting back. Of course the rebellion had done its own significant amount of damage, but there was no lack of casualties on our side either. And since our technology when it came to medicine was nowhere near the league of the Capitol's, it took a lot longer to regroup and heal the injured and sick who managed not to die far from their homes.

I sit with folded hands in my lap, continuing to stare at the floor of the room that's blocked all life from me.

The door slides open and I am called to the meeting that Haymitch set up for the four of us.

The plan is simple. I will enter into the heart of Panem, for the Capitol has its defenses but they are becoming fewer and weaker, and since this is a preemptive strike, no one will see us coming from the sky, a bird of prey falling into fire; this is what concerns me. The world has turned against the Capitol; not even 2 will side with them, seeing's how they have been put into a very dangerous situation by their beloved leaders but neither will they completely join us—for we have their Victor—however the Capitol and its leaders are not idiots and this is an aspect of their character that I wonder has been left out or forgotten. These are men and women who had willingly taken time out of their lives to take the lives of others. It only makes sense that these people are more cunning, devious, tactful and tenacious then we give them credit for; how else have they been in power for so long?

This does not seem to concern Haymitch any, and it doesn't bother Effie and Cinna either. Since the latter two are from the Capitol, they should know better and considering their social circles, very well know who exactly is intelligent and who should just be ignored.

"You will be safe, sweetheart," insists Haymitch, more for his benefit than mine, it seems; though he does not have that same sarcastic bite into that endearment like before. Perhaps because the full weight and magnitude of our predicament is finally coming to a head on all of us, crushing us with its inevitability.

"I do have a request that I want to make,"

The three are silent; looking at me with earnest eyes though the emotions behind the earnestness varies.

"On the upcoming mission, I want Cato with me."

Effie is on her feet, huffing about my ludicrous suggestion; Haymitch lets out a few choice swear words and says I've finally gone off the deep end; Cinna is the only one to hold my gaze and though the tinges of distress is certainly there, he has more confidence in me than anyone else, including myself.

"Why would you insist on that man going with you?" continues Effie, her clothes slightly disheveled; she seems to take notice and begins to preen her skirt, smoothing it out, more to calm herself than to straighten her clothes. This is a natural response—I would have reacted the same way if I had heard this, though with more rage than anything else. Effie just radiates with disapproval and she looks at me, her face grim and there seems to be a glistening in her eyes that surprises me a little.

"Don't take him with you," pleads Effie.

"Who else can I take besides him?" I assert, locking eyes with each individual. "There may be people who know the location of each building in the Capitol, but the Capitol still believes that the truce is intact, correct? No one will be expecting us to break it; hence, no one will be helping us get through."

"Not every Capitol citizen is on their side,"

"But the majority is,"

"Katniss, while this is definitely an aspect we took into factor, we do not see any good reason to allow such a proposition," Cinna tells me, and his hands are the table, folded, similar to mine, and I long to hold them close. "How will taking him with you bring about any solution?"

"Because… Snow had wanted me to kill him."

The quiet hangs there, a brief birth, before Cinna breaks it, voice low, drawing me back to my reality. "He had told you this."

"A while after I got here. He had told me that he wanted me to kill him."

Haymitch breathes out hugely through his nostrils and the anger in his face says much yet little. "That bastard… I should've known that there was always a catch. He was always too complacent. And it would explain why you were so determined to kill him as well—because we did not know about it."

"What if you had?"

"If we had known about it, we wouldn't have continued with the truce, since Snow was lying to two parties of the same side and manipulating both. Although we may have allowed you to kill him, to justify his actions against you,"

If I had told them… but I never did. A flicker of anger burns before it dies out, as fast as it came. It gets too tiring to hold any kind of feeling nowadays. It's easier to just be numb and allow things to happen to me without getting too riled up. My body cannot exactly take it, and with the anxiety causing me to have daily shakes and nausea, I'm told to take it as easy as I can.

My body is going to have to get prepared as soon as possible. It is clear that I don't die easily; but death never cares who dies easily and, because it's fickle, can prolong it as long as it wants.

"I do not think it is a good idea to allow him access to any kind of weaponry, especially technologically advanced ones. We do not need a psychoanalyst to determine his sanity—he is completely gone off the brink of his mind."

"I know. I was his prisoner for over a year," I remind him, more gently than intended, "But the thing is, I just need him there. It is difficult to explain but he can help me—in some ways we understand each other because, despite what he has done to me, he wants Snow dead as much as the rest of us and I think that can play into our advantage—that he hates Snow more than he hates me."

Effie looks disgruntled but satiated since she received a straightforward, polite answer; Cinna appears thoughtful and Haymitch's expression is expressionless.

As they ponder, I think about what has spewed from my mouth in all the eloquence of a liar and an optimist. I am not lying when I say that he hates Snow more than he hates me—that is, sadly, the optimistic side that has been dead for so long. It _wants_ to believe that because, then, some pieces can fall into place. The liar in me is the frightening part—because the rest of what I said sounds like lies only to me; it is truth to them because it is true: he and I do understand one another; but it sounds like a lie because I refuse to believe that he and I share some abhorring, twisted connection. It is something I have to accept as a truth instead of a lie. He can help me, he will cooperate; if, in the end, not to kill Snow, then for Haycinth. I can no longer deny that he does not feel an inkling of emotion towards Hyacinth.

Maybe my baby is a light to both of us.

The world could certainly use a splash of sunlight.

"What you are asking is definitely questionable…" Cinna states, eyeing me carefully, with all the tenderness of a father and the caution of one, "But you have to promise that he will be under the reins of others."

I ask him to explain though I am sure I know where this is going.

Haymitch intercedes as Effie seats herself, "Being unstable, as previously mentioned, it's going to take more than you to subdue him, especially since this little rendezvous is a dangerous mission and we can't afford losing you. None of us care what happens to him."

"However," chimes Effie, "it is interesting that Snow wanted him dead all this time and he only told Katniss. I believe that is enough reason to keep Cato alive; for the time being," she adds, if not for my sake, then, for their own; they all hate him because of his actions.

"It's imperative that this works, Katniss," murmurs Cinna and he approaches me, holding my hands in his and I relish the welcoming warmth. My fingernails are becoming a light shade of purple and my fingers are always cold, aching so this feels nice and I drink it in; a parasite of life and heat.

"We will make sure that we're all ready to move out in two days. To gather all we need and to finish up any last minute details," Haymitch says and glances at Effie, who seems to beam under the idea of fixing up the remaining loose ends and he actually smiles a little at her enthusiasm. Huh.

Then he turns to me, serious, grim, and hopeful, "Be ready, Mockingjay. Time is fast when the value of it rises,"

He's right. It is nightfall already when I look through the thin window of where my captor is being held. I take a deep breath, even though I am not entirely sure why I take it. My heartbeat is aching too much to even hold in more air.

A shudder passes out my lips. I am not allowed to enter, for I have told myself not to. But there is more at stake here now than my own personal discomforts so I ignore the wary, worried glances of the guards and the other people around me and step through the door.

He's so quiet that I wonder if he died while I was away.

This thought makes me hurry over to make sure—from dread or elation is debatable.

It's faint but there is the sound of his breathing. I shake him, gently, than I remember my hatred and I shake him harder.

He looks up at me and his face is tired that I cannot help but feel guilty for waking him. But this is his fault too, because he dragged both of us into this mess. It would've just been easier if he had killed me instead of keeping the promise that Peeta held him to. Peeta…

I halt the train of thought before it elaborates, dragging me into that dark part of my mind.

"Katniss…"

"Shut up. We're going,"

He looks alarmed, "Going where?"

"You're going to help me on a mission…"

"What kind of mission?" his voice is hesitant, very small and I wonder if this is an act. He's pretended many things for quite a long time—I have a difficult time trying to comprehend all his motivations. It's best to just ignore his feelings and focus on the tasks at hand, on what I need to do to accomplish the things I need to see through. In the end, I have to tell myself that it's about me and not him, it shall never be about him nor should it be.

"It's an important one. We're going after Snow,"

"…After him? Is this a wise move?"

"Do you have a better idea?" I snap, "Isn't this what you wanted to?"

"Of course, but he has to be infiltrated from the inside, doesn't he? It would be difficult to get in, don't you think?"

"We've already worked through scenarios and compiled a list of ways to get in, especially if one backfires,"

"He's not a man to mess with, Girl on Fire. You must know that." he responds, rolling his eyes and looking away to the wall on his left, eyes narrowing, brooding, but calm.

It's amazing in a way, really, the way his mind can just snap into complete concentration. One moment he's whimpering and vulnerable in front of me then the next he becomes callous, thinking of stratagems and finding an inner ferocity that I try to forget but I know will always remain—the mind of a killer.

"I do know that. That's why you're wanted, to take him down,"

He glances at me. Holds my gaze. It's causing my insides to churn uncomfortably but I hold it too, the desire to flee and rush into his arms causing me to hold myself in place.

"I need an answer," I mean for it to come out harsh, to come out demanding, but my voice is barely a whisper, strained, tightening from emotions that human voice can never truly convey.

He does not say anything.

My hand reaches out and touches his cheek; it's cold.

His lips part from surprise but he doesn't blink, doesn't do anything. "I'll help you,"

I can hardly believe that he is acquiescing to this but I do not question his complacency and I rise, getting ready to leave when he calls me back. I kneel, waiting for him to move. He does and it's towards me, mouth brushing gently upon mine, almost sweet, and I have to give pause to think why he does what he does, how he can do these things without any remorse, how human he must be and isn't.

He makes me want to pity him; but he pisses me off.

Then he smirks, "It shouldn't be too hard,"

I smirk back; he really pisses me off…

The night goes by en masse, a blur of dark things and hot dense light rays, keeping me from fully capturing the blanket of sleep. Our weaponry and arsenal are almost ready for deployment and I continue with my training, increasing it by the moment it feels like. My body is not used to the conditioning anymore, and while the rate of it is getting better with each session, getting myself used to this kind of rigorous activity, I am still far behind from where the old Katniss used to be. She's far ahead of me and I cannot keep up with her at all…

I collapse onto a chair when the whole ordeal is over, listening to nothing, thinking about everything, when Haymitch and Cinna enter the room, two guards behind them with my captor in between all four. I find it shocking, seeing him moving about like a… normal person. He's dressed simply, wearing a shirt and pants made out of sturdy breathable material.

He notices me and there's a light that flickers in those eyes, brighter than the skies. He takes a step in my general direction; the guard nearest me smacks him back and a coiling begins to form in me. Haymitch waves the guard off ans shakes his head. He looks at me, gives me an odd look that I do not understand the reason for before saying that I will be fine and it's not a problem if my captor joins me at the table. I find this to be incredibly daunting—he is the one who had objected completely to the idea of having anything to do with my captor, but here he is, whisking me off into the arms of a man redder than the sun, aflame with sin and anger and passion.

In that moment, I want to hurt Haymitch badly, along with my captor, but I remain quiet as the man is seated directly across from me, Cinna and Haymitch stay silent, watching the two of us and I wonder about their own motivations behind such permission. And it can only be one thing—they want to know what I will do. What Cato does is of no secret to anyone, even if the vary in possibilities—running off once he's in the clear, killing me, or killing himself.

But the real difficulty is me—I am the one with much stake in her name and if they find him in danger with me, then the plan may not be put into motion. This is also a test of my sanity, to show my comprehensive sills in other words. I have to prove to them that I can still handle strenuous situations. I must.

If not for them, then for myself; because I doubt my own ability now—I just do.

I have been handed a bow and arrow, and the feelings that come through me cause me to quake, washing me in a wave of memories and pain and relief. It hugs into my hand, a friend that I've forgotten has always been there when I needed it. Humans could only do so much but, in the end, I always had this weapon to help me protect and serve those who mattered to me. Most of them anyway…

The night covers us and many ghosts come to murmur sweet harsh words, blows that leave my soul breathless. I desire to think of Peeta and how he would guard me from the nightmares when they proved to be too much.

But I cannot think about Peeta. Thinking of him breaks me into two every time I think of him. Kind and gentle and self-sacrificing; he did not deserve the end he got…

Yet he comes to me, a spiritual protector of my soul, telling the darkness to recede and he smells of fresh bread and a warm hearth. I'm lost in the heart that had beat to keep me alive but then he stops whispering. He is now quietly weeping, and then openly sobbing before he starts shrieking in pain. The wails cause me to pull back, still trapped in his embrace, his death grip. I try to bolt away because his face is in such pain that I cannot bear to watch him tear himself apart when he grips me and I can't find the light anymore. He's become a dark and twisted being, gnarled by rage and consumed by grief.

I know what this means—I know because it makes sense: he didn't deserve that horrible fate but mine—the rape, the infliction of wounds, the torment of my body and my mind on my heart, the desire to run from people and to people—is all deserved.

As I think these things he confirms it, breathing hot stale air upon my neck as he nips the skin, drawing blood from my corpse.

"You don't deserve to be forgiven!"

I don't feel like I woke up but I did and I'm sobbing uncontrollably in this bed, encased in the coffin of my mind. Each recollection of him is a stone, sinking me further into an abyss of my own creation.

I fall out of the bed and I make way for the bathroom, vomiting and retching, my skin cold as sweat pours down every inch of me, causing my clothes to cling to me. I'm gasping heavily, trying to suck in air but I can't. I don't even know if I _want_ to breathe.

There are people rushing to me and I hurl myself at them, all tears and mucus and vomit and blood and pain, yelling at them to leave me alone. Why can't I ever just be alone?

I lay on the cool tiled floor, slipping in and out of consciousness but sleep doesn't come and I'm grateful for it. But I need the sleep—I need to be ready to protect the people I love. The dawn approaches too quickly—it crawls along the sky, brimming over the horizon, spilling beauty, and I hate that it still comes up fast.

The people here know of my episode and they do not ask how I am feeling. My responses are always the same—sharp and crisp, telling them that I am fine. It's a lie that we all know but it's a lie that we've all gotten used to.

I'm pulled about, vaguely aware of my surroundings but it's all right. Even though this attack on the Capitol is only recently planned, it seems to be falling into place. Cinna has already given me my outfit, Haymitch my weaponry and Effie my list of what to do and when. I am to take down this monstrous society from the inside out, tearing out the heart. I've entered the Games once more but I've never felt more ready. I am ready to die for real because I'll finally be of use to the people who could never fend for themselves against our destroyers. It doesn't hurt either that I already feel dead, with every step of my feet.

The anxiety in me is minimal because I don't pay it any attention. I am waiting for the end to come—there's nothing else I can do at this point. I think of the people I love, hiding beneath earth, and I choke up from wondering of them and the fact they are below the earth, where the sky is hidden and birdsongs are a thing of dreams.

I almost wish I hadn't sent them underground but I have no choice. People cannot fly away from their problems—all I could do was hide them in the ground, for the earth can offer them more protection than I can. But at what cost? Prim and Gale know of the dangers below, how the earth can collapse upon anything because it is its own maker—offering food and protection but it can turn treacherous in the blink of an eye and engulf people, killing them all—

I don't realize I am breathing heavily until I'm startled by a touch on my shoulder. Effie is gazing down at me. I have sunk down to my knees and holding my head in my hands does nothing to help the situation. There is sincerity in her eyes as she comes down to my level, her face covered in an assortment of blues and greens, lakes and forests. I will never adore the Capitol looks but the colors are slightly comforting—the colors are stark in the contrast of pure ink.

"We're almost ready, dear," The question is beneath: Will I be fine enough to lead?

I nod and I rise with her, her hand in mine and I hold onto her back when she firmly gives me a reassuring squeeze. There's a smile on her face—sad and forlorn and I wonder if there is more to Effie than I first thought, behind all the smiles and rainbows. I'm saddened now at the fact I may never truly know Effie for who she is, how blinded I was by it all.

But she makes no fuss and I remember I appreciate her for that—she takes things in stride in her own way too.

I enter into the room where we've had everything done: where we've broken bread, where we've talked of fragility, where we've talked of rebellion, where we've talked of life and death and prosperity in its purest form. I never thought a dining room of the Capitol could hold so much significance to me but it does.

Cinna and Haymitch are already there, looking me over for any last minute details and informing me of the plan again. I process it all, drinking it in. I need to do this and I have to do it now, before I cave into myself.

I turn and I see him there, free of bondage, all bronze and gold and destruction and glory and lifelessness. I'm not sure entirely of how to think of him, without the chains, without the means to keep himself from holding onto me and annihilating me with his kisses and lies.

The others eye us warily, wondering how things will happen between him and me, no doubt.

My captor breaks the silence first, "I'm ready."

I nod in reply and I notice the two guards behind him now. So he is not totally trusted by the others and that is understandable. He seems to be completely in his element, walking confidently, not looking like the young man that looked broken and defeated and manic all that time ago.

When we reach the place for deployment, the back door of this building, for the Capitol denizens who serve us, supposedly, continue to remain clueless. Only a few of the trusted rebels who stayed with us are readying themselves to guard us. We will go out into the public square, completely normal, and make way to where Snow resides. It's a quiet plan; it's a plan that should be deadly.

If needed, there are still plenty of rebels that will attack from the air, courtesy of some machines given to us by District 13. They may harbor the ones I love but I curse the lot of them for living in presumably better conditions. They may be beneath the earth but they are undisturbed.

As we are getting into are clothing and making sure that are arsenals are concealed, my captor turns to me.

"You nervous?"

"What do I have to be nervous about?"

"We may die today,"

"Then so be it. I think I'm ready."

"To die?"

"To do something that must be done."

He gives me a soft chuckle, "That's so like you to say."

I turn to him and my anger amuses him. He's no different from before. He's just allowed more leniencies so he's more docile. "You don't know me."

"We've spent more than a year together. I say I know you a little bit."

I can't deny the amount of time that I dealt with under his brutality; however that does not make him capable of knowing me. Of knowing the real me as others do. I've only let in a few people see me, from the depths of my being to the surface of my exterior and he'll never know.

And if he, for some reason, desires to, I'll make sure he doesn't.

It's time to leave and we exit quietly. I listen to the footfalls of our shoes hitting the pavement. The world is quiet to me, even though the din of the people talking is all around me. They seem to talk louder and louder and I should be grateful for this—no one will notice. There will be no skirmish. They will not notice the knife will cut them from the inside because it's already been swallowed.

I look ahead. I just look ahead, for the target that isn't in view yet. I'm reminded of how an arrow flies to hit its mark—it is not deterred, it only goes forward. The target is the only thing that matters.

There's a brush against my hand I jerk back violently. Cato is looking down at me and he harshly whispers, "Don't overreact to everything. We're supposed to look normal, remember?"

I look behind us and I notice that the rebels with us are walking slightly a few feet behind and it's similar to the ones ahead. He and I are the only ones walking close to each other. To any outsider watching he and I are a couple. Physical intimacy is not only expected but encouraged here.

I am tempted to call the rest of our group to us—I am wondering if this is deliberate or by accident; either way it is shocking to me that they would leave us alone together. I am overcome with wanting to snap at them for leaving us unattended but I don't get the chance. His hand is resting on the small of my back and is pushing me forward.

"Don't get distracted. We have a mission to do."

"You're awfully familiar with how to move and kill things,"

"I'm no different from you. We were in the Games."

I glance at him, his gaze not going to mine, his head straight as he walks along. The anxiety in me is suddenly flittering into me and I breathe in deeply. I don't want him near me but it doesn't seem I have much of a choice. I'm being pushed by him and by some invisible force—this needs to be done, I need to learn to go and to let go.

The building is coming into view, a large iron gate blocking entrance. There are guards placed on either side where they never would've been before—for who would have dared to attack the Capitol before?

We're only a hundred yards away.

"Almost there," he murmurs to me, breath in my ear.

"I know."

"Are you ready?"

"I am. I've told you."

"You've told me lies before,"

"I assure you that this isn't."

"Good. Because this is it,"

But it isn't.

The guards begin to inquire the rebels in front of us and this is where we expected the plan to take a detour. Their president is under protection and our rebels quickly extricate the guards from their positions and gunfire is shot into the sky, causing other passersby to duck down and scream.

We manage to breach through the gate and we're rushing in. I take out my weapon and my arrow cuts into the skin of earth instead of the man coming at me. I quickly pull out another and hit him before he reloads. My hands are shaking. I used to think I could never kill before but I'm taken over by someone new, someone who puts the lives of others in the darkest corner possible. There are people who need me to do this. I fight back the shaking and plod on.

There's a quarry of men coming towards us. A bullet sounds, slicing through air, and there's a grunt. Light explodes about me and rebels from above are tossing grenades into the vicinity, blasting Capitol guards about us. Many more of us are joining us in the fight below and it didn't occur to me that Haymitch would assemble everyone possible. For some reason I assumed we would be a small group, but I've been gone from fighting for too long it seems—I've never been in battle before.

The hallways are being filled with guards, their steps echoing with ours. My only priority is to find the place where the president resides. That is my only objective. Cato continues to run beside me, telling me of the location of where to find him. It's odd, listening to him help me. He was told to memorize the map, even though we have a communicator that allows a blue print of the inside of the building to come to view when we vocally command it to. It had surprised me but, apparently, not all Capitol citizens are in support of their ruler.

Three men come out from behind a wall and one tackle me to the ground. Cato comes up and slams the butt of his gun into the head of the one atop me. He's suddenly a flurry of golden skin, and he pulls out a sword—short but it will do its work from the way he's wielding it. Blood is spilling over onto the tiled floor, and he pulls me up. It didn't take long and I'm left looking at him.

He suddenly grins at me and he bucks his fist gently beneath my chin. "Don't gawk,"

I almost smile at him because it's so out of place in this world—I'm relying on my enemy to lead me to victory and it may just work. Because he is at home here, where there's violence and death.

If I think on it long enough, it's enough to make me want to cry.

But I don't. I can't and I won't.

Shooting arrows is getting easier and he leads me to the main room where Snow usually is. The alarms may have sounded and there are cries ringing from inside and outside the building. Cato barges through the door and hurries me inside.

"Finish the job."

The door then closes and we're separated, left to fend for ourselves.

I turn, looking about the immaculate expanse space. There, sitting in a chair, is Snow.

Slowly, my feet move on their own toward him and I all I can hear is my own breathing, the scent of roses and blood in the air.

"Hello, Katniss Everdeen."

I say nothing.

"I thought you might want to do an attack eventually. You strike me as a fighter,"

His small talk bothers me and I find myself glaring at the murderer of many children. "Stop it! This has to end now."

He laughs quietly and looks at me, his eyes blue and bloodshot. Not unlike Cato's from time to time.

"Listen to you, noble as ever. If I understand correctly, you caused all of this."

"I did not!"

"But you did. You don't pay attention to the string of circumstances that happen because of you."

"…What do you mean by that?"

He only looks at me: _I think you know._

I stand, looking at him. It's true. I probably do know. In the end, it all comes back to me, somehow. How Peeta loved me, how Cato promised Peeta not to kill me, the promise of victory Snow bequeathed onto Cato and it led to the promise of death for me. This whole war occurred because of love.

I let out a shuddery gasp. "Why not just let me die?"

"You weren't the only cause," he states, ignoring my question.

I nod. "Yes, I know. Cato caused it too, when he stole me and made me his own."

"While he's part of it, I wasn't referring to him. I was referring to myself."

"You?"

He smiles and rises. I pull out an arrow and notch it into the string, the familiarity swimming through me. He glances at me. "I am going to die, I can see. So I may as well tell you."

I wait, breathing calmly, even as my heart thunders.

"There had been talk of rebellion for a long time against the Capitol, mainly in the districts further in the outskirts of Panem. I did nothing about it until the possibility increased. I waited for an opportunity where I could do something to prevent any such occurrence. Nothing appeared to be happening. Until you and the boy from 12 came. That was when I knew that everything would change—the Capitol adored the two of you, and his death swept my people. The true outcome did not happen until Cato requested he have you.

He was perfect for it. His decision caused a vocal outburst in the Capitol and throughout Panem. In the Capitol, it was entertainment; for the rest of our country, it was the last straw. This caused the war to finally happen but my people were prepared for it, even if the casualties were happening. Eventually, we all saw that he was the cause—he stole a young girl and made her a toy. You two became the faces of war even though it was unintentional."

"But you _allowed_ him to take me. Why is no one blaming you?"

He smiles and I'm revolted. "Why indeed."

"So you knew all along that this will happen."

"Of course,"

"You wanted a war to start?"

"No, my dear; I wanted to see a war start and prevent it by putting the blame on another. It's been working, don't you think?"

I can't deny that. That's why Cato's been concealed this entire time from the world, why he had to hide his face as we walked around.

This man before me is more evil and deliberate than we could have ever anticipated.

"Why Cato?"

"He was who the audience loved most besides you and your lover. He was almost worshipped."

"That's all? You protect this nation by disillusionment."

"I do what I must. Another war is the last thing this country needs. But you backfired, my dear. You decided to attack me directly, even after all this time. It was not, if I may say, a very brilliant move. You have much at stake, do you not?"

I tense as my blood freezes.

Something nettles me about this entire situation.

"There's something else, isn't there?"

He looks at me, peering into me and I can't stand it.

"Tell me the truth!"

He looks grim but there's a glint in his eyes that I don't trust. "I'm not sure you can handle it."

"I've had it with lies, tell me."

He clasps his hands mildly behind his back, the scent of blood and roses mingling, staling the air and I can barely breathe.

"Cato did not do this on his own. You're right, dear girl. For, you see, when you have a very compliant and ignorant individual, it's not hard to persuade them. Then, at other times, it is. I knew it would come down to you and he—you're the strongest of the tributes and the only ones left who could stir hearts in ways we never thought possible. That's why I had him infused with Tracker Jacker venom."

I almost release my arrow.

What?

Tracker Jacker…

"It's easier to control someone from the inside, from the mind."

"You… he's been laced with it, this entire time?"

This time he beams, and the look in his eyes increase and I'm frightened by it.

"You're lying!" For some reason I can't believe this. How could the effects of the venom last this long?

"You told me not to tell you lies,"

He wasn't infected. Snow lies all the time. He's deceived us all. Cato isn't injected with venom…

Was he?

My mind is spinning as my heart screams for me to do something, anything—

"You're not good at taking orders. You should've killed him when I told you and ended this."

The world around me is hushed and all I'm aware of is Cato barging through the doors, grinning madly and his eyes speak a language I do and don't comprehend—because he is and isn't Cato all at once, and my world is falling apart; because the last person I thought I could understand is something I never truly understood.

My hands slip and my arrow cries with me, wanting to find home.


	24. Vulture

**AN: I KNOW I'M THE WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD, DON'T HATE ME THOUGH, I LOVES YOU ALL! THERE ARE SO MANY OF YOU. ;_; Thanks to: SEGAgirl82, JustBreatheCalifornia, shloh, Lilac Alyssa Halliwell, Mademoiselle-Shel, hutcherwife, Ruhne, 408934, dreamsnhugs, scoco, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, FYInichole, Starmaker Superstar, mirrorreflex, thepinkmartini, catie8, celine-the adorkable one, Nissy Padfoot, sundragons9, KJS X-OVER, i call dibbs on cato, EvilFaerie17, sMoShFiRe, shiroban, Trelaney, TashaLewis19, ManiDani, KingSquatch, DarkAngelKimimuso-hime, FreedomWriter15, Shallie-wa, Lunne Lunnaris, those who added/reviewed before and my anon!**

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><p><em>Vulture<em>

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><p>My arrow is lodging itself into his heart—my heart—and there is terror painting my face, staining it, tearing it into a horrible grimace of fear and pain and realization.<p>

But he's fast and the sigh of relief that escapes my lips when my arrow pierces his shoulder is an explosion in the quiet room.

He's upon me, arms outstretched, hands gnarled into deadly hooks, screaming and snarling.

I block an uppercut that he's about to smack into my jaw, thankful for the little training I was able to receive. I sidestep to the left, looking at him; and Snow is watching in amusement at what's going on. I've lost my patience with the whole damned world and my arrow is being notched into the string, to imbed through Snow's head, and Cato immediately comes forth, his body blocking Snow's from my weapon.

This time, when I fire, it's intentional: the rage of being manipulated, the world falling around at my feet and no one bothering to help me pick it up in my own way, the way he's been used to use me, how everyone is so fucking cruel and horrible and I don't want anyone to live in a world without compassion.

The arrow whistles harshly, my own Mockingjay screech.

It lodges into his side and he doesn't seem fazed.

His sword is unsheathed, slicing through air to slice into me.

Rolling to my left, closer to the door, I bolt and run down the hallway, the sounds of gunfire and explosions charming the air with a wicked sting and nauseas fumes. I hear him behind me and I haven't left the Games at all—it's like before, he's still my pursuer, my tormentor, my killer, ruthless and howling bloodthirsty cries to the skies. Nothing has changed at all—he'll go to the ends of the earth to destroy me. Not just kill me. He wants to _destroy_ me.

The calls of the rebels intermingle with sounds of Capitol guards, humans fighting humans. The sun will not be setting for a little while longer—the light will help us see but it will not help shield us from the enemy. There's this terrible sound of laughter ringing behind me and I believe it to be him, when I catch the pitch, how his voice isn't high enough—the way it sounds when he would laugh hysterically.

It's Snow, even though he is not chasing me. It's only my captor behind me.

I break out into the sunshine, blinded, my eyes adjusting to the scene of red and grey and billowing smoke. They must've used grenades and some bombs for detonation. I jump over body limbs, trying to ignore the reek of blood and grief in the air.

All I hear is screaming and his laughter.

I run in the direction of where we resided but it occurs to me that it would be deserted by now, with the military of the Capitol on full scale alert due to our attack.

Or everyone is there, they'll just be dead.

I make myself run faster, lungs burning from exhaust of fumes and fatigue, my body still weak despite the training. Debris suddenly hits the side of my face and I cringe from the rain of gravel and littered bodies. There are sirens shrilly calling in the vibrating air.

A scream wrenches itself from my throat, pain shooting up my left side. Warmth spills and my hand instinctively go to cover the wound I know is there. I quickly glance back, seeing his hand go down and there's the gleam of sunlight upon steely death in his hand. I round a corner just as I hear the whoosh of another knife zip past, watching the handle rotate about with its tip.

I head down the alley I have gone into, trying to be evasive. The sirens cry harsher, fitting the screams of people running all around the Capitol. Kneeling behind another wall, I examine the cut made into my side. It's not too deep—all it's doing is seeping blood a little too much for my liking. Reaching into one of my pockets, I pull out a large wad of bandages and cover it as fast as possible. Then I move on again.

"Mockingjay!" comes a voice and I try very hard not to freeze from the hatred and longing in that one word. I ignore all the things he is shouting to me, hoping to find someone from my group who will be able to help me.

Then there's the near whispery whir of hovercrafts. My head turns back, neck craned, the aircraft looking heavier and more massive than before. My legs go on their own without my telling them to—they know that, right now, we must survive and nothing good will come from my dwelling on too much.

I run and run, air stinging my throat and chest, my windpipe occasionally choking in on itself.

The world is screaming and it all seems to be coming from my voice.

In a haze, there is gray upon black and white, red staining everything in sight.

Nothing is making sense! Everything is a flitter of memory and present: smoke and ashes, Snow's twisted and nonsensical ploy, my captor's thirst for blood, the fact my son lives in such a chaotic and frightening place, my missing my father's consoling voice.

"Katniss!"

I want to run and hide. But hiding will lead him to me and that is a very dangerous thing to want.

So I have to keep running.

But my mind hits a mental barrier and my legs suddenly stop, thinking of all the times he's been here with me, horrible and monstrous in the darkness of night, telling me it'll all be over soon.

It will be over now.

I turn and watch as he comes on to me, all venom and flesh and insanity.

He has no projectile weapon.

I notch an arrow, heat pouring down my cheeks and my throat constricting from emotions it can't completely swallow.

I release it and it smacks sickeningly into his chest.

It only slows him down, not enough to kill him, possibly wound him, but not kill him. I only just recall the thick layer of protective wear beneath his clothing and continue to run towards wherever I won't be killed quickly. The sound of gunshots above my head cause my hands to automatically cover over it, the heavy layer of debris settling over my body, filling my nostrils with a chalky scent.

Leaping over a mound of rubble and civilians that couldn't make it, I notch an arrow into my bow when I see a Capitol guard upon a roof, aiming at people that were in my group. It lodges itself into the back of the guard's neck but I don't stop running to check on the ones who risked their lives for me. They'll be safer if I'm farther from them and that is what I intend to do—to get as far as possible.

And to bring my captor with me.

The sound of hovercrafts grow louder and I look up at the sky, where a ladder has been unleashed to the poor folk below, but it's closer to me. From up above, I see Cinna, his face marred with red trickling down from his crown.

"Katniss!" he motions for me to come, "Climb up!"

Haymitch and Effie are there, both of their hands reaching out to me.

Pain stings in my side but another stab bolts up my leg and I turn.

He's gaining upon me, snarling horrifically. My insides turn cold and hot, causing me to be lukewarm—in a state caught between two desires, to fight him and to flee. Effie is shouting at me, telling me I must hurry. Her voice sounds strained and, for some reason, I imagine her crying.

Heat spreads through me as my mind cools, wanting to think and to remember.

This is his entire fault.

And it's also not his fault.

I remember the strength of his hands when they strangled me and when they embraced me. When he laughed cruelly and when he laughed joyfully. I remember how he would smile that smile that meant he would destroy me, and the smile that meant he would do anything to protect Hyacinth, and, maybe, even me.

Something in me has changed as well. I don't know what it is—maybe it's from finally learning the truth about him.

So I wait for him to come closer.

He does but he halts, come to a complete stop before me, the wind being blown by the hovercraft thrashing my braid into my face. He stares at me, into me, the same as he always does.

"Why did you stop, Girl on Fire?"

"This has to end now."

He looks a little surprised. "But you and I are meant to kill each other."

Despite what's happened, he and I know this is true. In the end, it was meant to come to this—a standstill where he and I must decide who will eat the nightlock given to us by fate. The Games were nothing compared to the ones in our head. He and I were meant to be together all along.

It's just not a fairytale.

My arms open of their own accord and I find myself with him coming fully into them, breathing hard, burying his head into my hair.

"I have to kill you…"

"I know." I murmur.

He grunts in pain before letting out a howl. He stares at the blade in my hand that I've kept hidden, and before he lunges toward me, I deftly sidestep and kick upward, the heel of my foot directly impacting into his head. He groans, clutching his head but I grab a hold of him, dragging him with me toward the ladder. No one approves, the silence from above them is thick. I don't let him go.

Something has to be done.

I'll kill him but in my own way. He'll die without dying.

Blood is spilling all over when I heave him up, looking at them to help me. Cinna and Haymitch do, the latter being more reluctant as they haul him up. Effie is on me, holding me close as the door shuts tight, blocking us from the death of the earth.

"What is the matter with you?" she asks me, touching my face and glaring at it, a contrast of her rage and worry.

"I had to bring him along."

"You should've left him to die." utters Haymitch, disapproval in his gaze.

"I never said I wasn't going to kill him."

They say nothing as we fly away from the smoking ruin of the Capitol. I don't know what happened to most of its citizens and I don't care. All I know is that the war has happened and we have still yet to kill Snow. But would that have even mattered? Leaders have been killed before and nations would still fight to conquer. Yet I know that he will need to die.

"Where is my group?"

Cinna is instructing a pair of medics to heal my captor before he looks at me, "They managed to escape, with only two casualties. Snow has disappeared of course, however there really is no place for him to run to. Panem is burning all around us. He won't be going far."

And it's true.

When we reach the underground city of District 13, we are informed of Snow being located, heading towards District 1, where the life is a little grander, even if they are being held against their will or completely on our side.

He's in our possession within a few hours.

It's a welcoming relief to be with my loved ones again. I kiss Hyacinth repeatedly, leaving smudges of red on his face to which my mother objects to. I'm hurried away by her into a medical room where she bandages me up, quietly taking care of me. Prim is close by, aiding her in whatever way possible.

I still haven't told them about what Snow told me.

I want to talk to my captor as soon as he is capable of communicating with me.

During that span of time, I'm showed around the facilities of the underground world within the world. They're quite a productive and efficient people, if a little rough around the edges and uptight. I'm grateful for the care that my children and the others have received.

Gale is still ecstatic to see me.

I wonder how Madge is taking this but she has given no indication of jealousy or possessiveness. This is good. I would hate to be on bad terms with her.

Gale and she are still taking care of Hyacinth for me.

Despite he and I being together after an excruciating separation, I refuse to allow my child such close proximity to a woman with an imbalanced mind. It's difficult, especially when he gets so close to me, tugging my hair. He babbles often, smiling at me, and Madge has said that he may be about to start speaking soon, despite being only nine months old. He's grown so big within this timeframe that I can barely believe it. He's larger now, crawling about and moving through the vicinity, excited to taste and see and touch new things and making sure that he does everything he can.

It is painful letting him go. Gale and Madge insist that I forget about the whole thing—my distancing myself; but I am determined to make myself a better mother and person for the sake of my son.

He's the world to me.

Prim is showing me how the schedules and such work around here. The timing of everything could be considered rigorous, maybe even ridiculous, but I accommodate as best I can. I've had enough instances of defying authority to last me for a while.

Not a lifetime, as I want it. But a while…

No one is allowed to see the vicious monster from District 2 for a long time. It's only a couple of weeks, yet it stretches into forever for me.

I'm not allowed to see him, I'm told.

There is nothing that can be done for him. And I'm the last person, in my frail condition, that needs to be near him.

This infuriates me, flashes of rage flickering in my soul. Being denied the one person in the world that can help me cope with myself—because he caused it, albeit indirectly—and I'm not allowed to even glimpse him. Whether or not people accept this, whether or not people want to protect me, the truth is that he and I are linked in many ways.

We were born into this dark world of violence and blood that covers our children's laughter. He and I are not so completely different. I've done nothing but think about him during this time of waiting. We're both from districts involved with the earth; we're both headstrong and unwilling to die; we're both tributes of a cruel game; we're both humans that have lost their minds to war and bondage; we're both parents.

That last truth haunts me most.

He's kept behind iron doors, I suspect. He is trapped deep within the earth, and this realization perturbs me. I don't know how he feels about disconnection from the world above but I can't stand being stuck beneath the ground, the sky obscured by layers and layers of dirt and corpses, both centuries old.

"You are not allowed to see him," Haymitch tells me for the umpteenth time. His voice is firm, eyes distant within his shrunken face. He takes a sip from the bottle containing spirits. I don't know how he managed to smuggle this and I don't question it.

"I need to see him."

"No, you don't. Why is it so important to you? You've already informed us of the whole Tracker Jacker situation. This isn't going to fix the problem. This is not the time for you to charge stupidly into everything, you need to keep your distance from your problems."

"But I can't! This is a problem that I have to face!"

"For what, Katniss? For what? What will become of this in the end? We have Snow in our custody but the war is far from over. The thing is, even though Snow himself confessed to infusing Tracker venom into Cato, the whole world is not aware of this completely. We've announced it on every accessible television to the public and there are people, mainly from the Capitol, that cannot wrap their heads around this.

They want answers to their questions. Why would Snow allow this war to happen? Why did he choose two children as the weapons of war? Is he still lying about this, fighting to bring us down from the inside? Did you ever stop to think that you're still a threat to way of the past as we know it, sweetheart? You're still the Mockingjay, the symbol of rebellion and freedom. Cato has venom in him; you're here and willing to find the truth, from what I can tell. If the venom is triggered while you're in the cell with him, Snow will still win, even at the expense of our Mockingjay. He was also caught way too easily, in my opinion. Snakes don't allow you so close without biting. There is something wrong about this."

I absorb this as best as my mind can. It's true. I do wonder if there was any truth to this whole ordeal. After I had told them about the Tracker Jacker venom infused within my captor, they decided to take some tests. It came out positive. He had been injected with the venom for a long time but the extensiveness of that period is unknown.

"That is precisely why I need to talk to…him. We have to know what is going on. Please, Haymitch."

"But you still plan to kill him. He is under the influence of manmade venom; you're under the influence of vengeance. Sweetheart, you're a violent and hurt girl." He says this without the acrid sarcasm. He even brushes back a lock of my hair but there's no pity there. We've never pitied each other. We know each other well enough that we don't like that.

"How can I be so sure that I can trust you in the hands of this boy and your own? You've been in a cage for a long time."

"You'll just have to try and see if the caged bird sings."

No one approves when he allows me to fly to my prison—Cato's heart and mind.

It's like entering home, a home of abuse and violence and kisses that seared into me, but it's home. Horrible as it may be, it's one of the few places I know so well anymore.

It does seem as though anyone can understand. I'm not doing this for me, and if I am, I'll admit to being selfish; I want the truth out, I want the world free of enslavement, I want a place where my son can thrive in the sun and listen to birds, I want peace for everything around me…

It will then grant me my own peace.

Huh… I am being selfish.

And, oddly, I don't care.

He is locked to the floor with a chain about his ankles, wrapped in a white jacket with many belts and buttons.

In this instance, looking at him, I don't know what to feel. Every bit of me is weeping from sorrow and hatred, from relief and longing. I don't understand how I can have so many emotions in regard to one human being, to one monster.

Despite the venom coursing through his mind, it's difficult to look at him without being reminded of all that he's done to me. He has hurt me deeply, made me look into my core where he'd dug me out and violated every inch of me.

Something touches the top of my head and I look up, my face half-hidden by my hands, to see him near me. I wasn't aware of how close I had come to him, how he'd responded to me.

"I knew you'd find a way to see me,"

I cry harder because I hate him, I love him; I want to murder him over and over then revive him over and over. How can I hate someone that did not know what they were doing?

"I have questions,"

He smiles, "Of course you do,"

I only stare, unsure of where to go. He is my last resort. No one but me has learned that the darkness is where I will find the light. The source of pain is also the answer. It's my turn to lovingly rape him as he did me—it'll be painful for him, yet it'll hurt me too. Because I don't want anyone to be hurt anymore. I just want the world to be quiet and sleep, find dreams worth holding onto, since the planet is so corrupted by nightmares.

He is the key to all of this: a young child in a man's scarred and deadly body, with a mind that doesn't work.

This makes sense and it doesn't. I have to violate him too, it feels like. He and I are so linked that invasion to one another's core being is the only logical explanation to understanding one another. It'll make me like him… a pawn in Snow's little game of slave and master.

"Talk," he tells me tiredly, but he remains attentive.

"I don't know where to begin…"

"Tell me something then. We'll start small. Conversationally,"

"…the baby is well."

"Is he?" he says, scooting as much as the chain will allow.

"Yes. He babbles and coos. He'll talk soon."

"That is good. My family adored him. They loved the way his eyes looked. He also laughed a lot for a newborn, they said."

I blink. "Did they?"

"Yes. They couldn't stop giving him things."

"So they…"

"Knew about you and me? Yes, they did. Not every detail but you were also in another part of the district, so they never saw or heard anything. Our home is on the other side of our personal Victor's Village," he adds when he sees the confusion on my face. Well, that explains why they were never in view. He had placed me in a different location.

"He was never abused, then?"

He lets out a snort. "I'd kill whatever asshole dared to touch him." He then catches on, "You wondered if I ever hurt him?"

"Yes,"

"I'm not a total monster."

"You could've fooled me."

"I fooled myself as well. Venom influence and all."

"Wait, they told you about the venom?"

"All of the detail that you told them. How I was infused with it for a long period of time."

"How do you think Snow managed to get it into you?"

"Someone from the inside, I suppose. I did find the sudden appearance of Antonia odd, but I never questioned it. She was useful."

My body tenses and he glances at me.

"Jealous?" he asks, yet there's no bite in it. He's lightly teasing.

"No, she was just a spiteful bitch whenever she bathed me."

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. "I figured. She definitely was… yeah, she was a bitch."

The silence hangs over us, clouding us over with things neither of us want to understand or voice.

My voice is defiant, "So the…"

"Your rape?"

He looks into me with soft eyes, blue gems that are melting in my gaze. All I can do is nod.

"To be honest… I don't know if that was totally the venom's fault."

My heart freezes. "What?"

"We're not sure when the venom was activated right? From what I see in my head, where it's not tinted with odd colors, I took you for my own in the arena and there is no color. I could've intended to hurt you all along. There's no way to know for sure if the venom is the cause of all of this."

"You mean the war?" I mean the war taking place about us, but I mean the war occurring within he and I even now, both trying to find ourselves in people that we've long forgotten. At some point in time, we were children—innocent and pure. We just couldn't afford to be children in a land dominated by adults.

"Yes. What do you know about it?"

I tell him what I can remember from Snow's little declaration, watching him as he watches me.

He sighs when I finish. "It's simple. He just wanted a scapegoat for the war he meant to happen."

"But why would he want it?"

He shrugs, "Madmen do awful things when they're bored, you know."

I do know.

There's a knock and I'm told to come back to my room.

I stand, not wanting to leave him.

"Go," he says, "I'm clearly not going anywhere."

I walk out without a backwards glance, not letting my indecisiveness about this get to me. I've assured myself that Haymitch will allow me access to him tomorrow as well.

I'm tired and collapse into bed, my aching heart pouring out such sadness it's unbearable. Poor Peeta must be horrified at the damage one promise can do.

I dream of darkness, and, there, I cry in the broken and torn mind I have, joined in by a choir of soft weeping noises.

It changes into light.

There, upon a barren floor, Cato lies dead to existence, my frame towering over him, telling him to get up and live as I bury my arrow further into his chest.

This dream frightens me but I allow it to happen.

I've wanted everything that had life to live but death is much too strong.

So I let the dream continue, and I remember every gruesome detail, sometimes reveling in it.

There's something fulfilling about death now.

It means the end is near. And this is good for a tired soul.


	25. Pheasant

**AN: I told myself it would not go past 2 weeks without an update. Past two weeks now… is anyone from before still coming? I know I'm taking a long time now so I'm just wondering. I see familiar names but not all so. :/ I'm also wondering if a full story or whatever from Cato's perspective would be of any interest to anyone. Leave me a review to comment on that, especially since this fic is gonna close in a few chapters, I'm pretty sure. THE END IS NIGH. Partly why it's taking forevs.**

**Thanks to: Tally Jennifer Youngblood, KatoKathy, thepinkmartini, Jessiexzx, peetasfakeleg, londoneyedgirl, BaconInTheBook, 408934, sundragons9, Lady Sakura of the Uchihas, Nissy Padfoot, nekoto2panda, , VickiELL, Infinity Motion, dreamsnhugs, OdairBear, ukelelejunkie, CatnipGirlOnFire, strongenoughforyou, Luna Etoiles Enchanteur, TheHungerGamesFan11, those who added/reviewed before and my anon!**

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><p><em>Pheasant<em>

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><p>I'm dreaming again. I know I am because in my dreams I'm surrounded by the people I love, free from ailment and pain and death.<p>

My father is singing a melancholic tune, about a man who couldn't have a woman because she was difficult to have—not because she evaded and eluded attention, but because she couldn't handle love. He's holding Hyacinth in one arm, propped on a knee, and Prim is in the other, buried in the crook of his shoulder. My mother is smiling happily, watching.

Gale is laying upon the earth, looking as though he were sleeping, and the years worn on his face dissipate until he resembles a boy who forgot that he is still a boy.

I search for Peeta, who I know is here. I find him soon enough, weeping on the ground, looking lost and oddly stillborn in the warm sunlight. He glances over his shoulder and a glimpse of my captor resonates from his eyes. But it's still Peeta—his nose, the curve of his mouth, his strong build, the scent of bread and something bitter; it's all Peeta.

Yet the eyes aren't his. Almost a similar blue and not; it's Cato looking back at me.

I kneel before Peeta, searching for Cato in those eyes too.

A hand comes up to rest on my cheek and red mars my cheek, the blood on his fingers claiming me.

"You have to help me,"

I begin to cry. "I don't know how, you know I don't."

"You do know!" he whisper-screams, "You do know. Help me find—"

I wait. I prod on, "Find what?"

His mouth opens and a piercing howl reverberates into my body, eyes wide, full of rage and fear. I can't get a firm grip on him or myself because the world is collapsing atop us, the sky falling, the earth quaking beneath my feet because I don't know how to repair the little world that I needed to protect.

I awaken in the darkness of my prison—no, my safeguard—and pant shallow gasps. I hear my pulse in my ears and feel my heart hammering violently in my chest.

It's been happening for days and nights now. With every blink, every flicker of movement, I see them in the mind of my eye and before my eyes. Peeta cries all the time when I sleep and it's coming to the point where I hear him only sometimes. I frightened Prim the other day when she tugged on my sleeve, telling me that she's been asking me the same question repeatedly for five minutes before I passed out on the ground. The physician and my mother both confirmed that I'm suffering from sleep deprivation but I don't feel tired, not in that sense. Just emotionally exhausted a lot of the time; but I ignore it since I don't think anyone needs to know.

I walk out of the room, drained from the night shroud and the whimpers in my ears. My feet stop directly before Gale's room, where I feel desperate, desperate to knock and tell him to give me my little boy back. With regret of such thoughts and anger at my selfishness, I force my feet to trudge onward, away from my child.

Silently I enter into the dormitories of Prim and my mother. Prim is curled up in the fetal position; Buttercup nestled next to her as always. My mother is sleeping on the other bed, looking similar to Prim, despite being much older and wearier in appearance. They're very identical. It's a little unnerving sometimes how I can love one more than the other, even if they do look similar.

I stay no longer than I must, leaving immediately to wander about the area. I've explored almost everything and I know how the laws and rules work—these regulations mustn't be broken because anarchy is feared here, though that isn't the reason they use when explaining their logic behind such irrational decisions. I think it's horrible to keep people below the surface of earth, but that isn't my call to make. They have their ways of living here in District 13 and we have our own. Since coming here, we haven't exactly had much time to do the pleasurable activities we would do at home, mainly to drown out the screaming of those we know in the Games or to forget they existed.

There isn't much to do aside from follow rules, which I do complacently, because I do owe them and I hate owing them; but Hyacinth needs to live in an environment that can offer him protection and if that means having to cooperate, so be it. He will have the best I can provide.

It's just that he can't have me…

And I feel lonely.

Will he even remember me? He still coos and babbles when he sees me, overwhelming me with intense love. I continue to keep my distance but when he is in my arms, I give him all the kisses that my dirty mouth can offer, wishing I could go on and on until my lips are chapped and bloodied and bruised from loving him so much.

Depression sinks into my throat, a heavy stone to swallow.

When the lights begin to flicker on, representing the beginning of a new dawn, I return to the vicinities of 13, struggling from not closing my eyes. All of a sudden, I can't help but want to sleep.

When I enter my room however, Prim and Hyacinth are there, brightening the dull room with their presence.

"Hello, Katniss," greets Prim, "Hyacinth and I are going to get breakfast now. Let's go there together."

I acquiesce with no hesitation and we arrive with all the meekness of mice. I do anyway. Being underground still becomes unnerving when people touch the top of the cave, though I've never seen anyone touch it deliberately, or even able to.

Prim and I gather our food, heading to the table where Gale and Madge are already occupying. I haven't seen Haymitch or Effie in a while but I do get an occasional glimpse of Cinna when we meet. The three have been busy, which is understandable and I'm grateful that while I've been burdened with fitting an image that is not my own, but I wish to see them and know what's going on.

I feed Hyacinth small spoonful after spoonful of the mushy sweet stuff they served this morning. He eats it well enough, though occasionally whimpers from the heat of it. He fusses a little but he always does in the beginning. He'll be fine. He always does this and from the little quirk at the corner of his lip, I get the feeling he _is_ teasing me.

Madge clears her throat, "Do you need help with that?"

"No, I got it."

A woman passing behind us makes a remark that I don't like, "The mother should be the one to feed the baby, shouldn't she?"

"_I'm_ his mother." I grit out, a hiss escaping past my teeth, into the air, and I wish it'll choke the breath in her lungs. The woman continues on without a backward glance, but the satisfying rhythm of her walk out the door, a near gallop, was satisfactory enough.

I know Madge is trying to be helpful, so I know she doesn't take any offense, but the comments nettles me and it'll perturb Madge too, thinking I'm mad with her.

"I'm not mad at you, if that's what you're thinking," I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady from the anger in me.

"Oh…alright,"

"They probably thought he was yours because of your hair color," I tell her, trying not to have my mouth fill with the bile of regret and blood and vengeance.

She knows enough to guess my moods but she doesn't need to wonder about this. Hyacinth is nestled within the crook of my arm, tucked beneath my chin and he leans into my chest. He gurgles, sucking the spoon, and then banging it upon the table. I wipe some drool off his chin and carry him out when I'm sure he's done. I'm grateful for the fact that he hasn't seem to have forgotten me.

My mother said that would happen at times. It wouldn't make sense for a district as poor as our own, but there were families that could afford to "adopt" certain children from time to time, mainly when the families were well-connected, typically through childhood bonds. The "richer" families would take in children and give them food, clothing, the necessities they could not have. But, sometimes, this caused the children to love their "adopted" parents more than their actual ones. I never thought it too harsh—children tended to forget and adults can learn to forgive. But a large part of me is relieved, overflowing with it—that my son does not ache for the arms of another, continues to seek me as his mother.

I would die if that happened.

Does my captor wonder about that, too?

I brush the fleeting thought aside, lighter than dust.

Hyacinth falls asleep in my arms by the time I'm back in my room. I lay him on his back, watching him sleep, the way he breathes, the way his lips move when he breathes in, a soft little breath, then letting it in a quick succession of several puffs. Then he snorts. He's so adorable!

I find myself smiling deliriously at having him here with me, even if these moments are short, even if Madge and Gale will come for my child in a little while. They're kind though and they won't do it until I tell them to. But _I_ am always unkind, to myself too. So they'll have him soon…

For now, I can watch my son forever. I look at the detail in his face, how it can look pale and pink then sunshine can dance on it, making it turn into a tender bronze color; his hair is so striking in the light, reflecting almost shades of off-white in the hues. I long to peer into his eyes because they're the feature I know resemble mine the most. He's a beautiful child, no matter where he came from. Cato would love to look at him as he is now…

I sigh heavily, drifting my finger above the bed, the tip of my digit hovering just above his hand. He feels it, I think, because he grasps it firmly, a vice on my finger that hurts and doesn't hurt; he's strong, but that's not what hurts—it's the way he absolutely clings to me, as though he is falling somewhere and he has nowhere to land. It's the death grip to life. His sudden whimper startles me and I'm tempted to wake him up when his grip slackens, his mouth parting, and he breathes quietly.

Did he die in his sleep?

Another breath…

He did. He died in his dreams.

I take him in my arms, carefully, and hold him close, listening to his breath, and my hand upon his chest feeling his heartbeat take wing beneath his shirt, beneath his skin.

It lulls me to a place I know and can't remember, with him missing and yet I'm the one who is absent. I see my captor walking ahead of me, with confident strides and an air of arrogance. But it's toned down somewhat. I walk behind him a long while, and he doesn't seem to notice me. I allow it to happen, I'm sure I'm in control of this, even if it's nothing but a dream situation.

He turns ever so slightly, Hyacinth held in his arms, and he looks so at peace that I want to kill my captor for it, for making my son look calm and for his look of peace. Where I have none…

The sun is streaming through the blinds now, the hushed breathing of Hyacinth making me tempted to fall asleep, forget the world, but the calm walk in the element of my survival, in the midst of the one who robbed me of it, cleared my head. Now all I can do is think, despite not wanting to.

Is he alright not having full capability of his mind? He certainly must hate it but with the way he speaks to me. Cold and conniving and completely remorseless, it's too much. Does he deserve rehabilitation after all that he has done? It's been confirmed that Snow had some type of role in the war, even if it doesn't seem so to the loyalists. What he said makes no sense. What my captor said made no sense. All I could piece together was that Cato is a pawn, somehow, but both are responsible for the devastation of Panem. What does Snow want? I understand that he is unstable, no one is cruel enough to send children to death without being unhinged; however, there's the matter of Cato and I bearing the brunt of force from Panem. How could he orchestrate something so terribly complicated, even if it doesn't seem to be?

Did he want to appear the fearless leader, sworn to protect the Capitol's citizens from imminent threat? And how did he choose me when there were others he could've picked to be the face of terrorism within one's nation?

How did Cato and I wind up being the cause of destruction and the solution for salvation?

There's a knock upon my door and it's Haymitch, much to my surprise. I watch him come in quietly and he looks down at Hyacinth, taking him in. There's a flicker of sadness in his eyes and I wonder what he's thinking. If he pities my son and me, if he wishes for children of his own. There's too much pain around us.

"Katniss,"

I say nothing, giving him my attention.

All of a sudden he becomes terribly quiet, almost sullen, and it frightens me. He's one of the few to ever be forthright with me. I trust him to be dishonest but I trust him to be the bearer of bad news.

"What is it?"

"Cato tried to kill himself today."

The wind could not have beaten me with how fast the air left my body.

"How did that happen?" my voice threatens to come out in a shrill pitch, only stopping when remembering Hyacinth.

"You know that he absolutely needs to take medication for the Tracker Jacker venom. When the doctors were giving it to him, they weren't as cautious, and he managed to wriggle out of the suit, grabbing one of the syringes. Before he could stab himself, they managed to overpower him and held him down to give him a tranquilizer. I had told them to take precautions since the first time he tried a few months ago—"

"Wait, you mean this isn't the first time? He's tried to kill himself before?"

"Yes. Why did no one tell you about this?"

"I'm wondering that myself."

Do people think me so weak that they keep secrets from me? Or do they fear something else—that I may care for my rapist? That's an impossible idea to fulfill.

Despite knowing that he is under the influence of Tracker Jacker venom, I continue to have bad dreams when it comes to him. There are some times when I can't pull away tragedy and pleasure, too, however. Where, in my sleep, he comes to relieve me of pain and I him, heat pooling into the core of my icy body, but it always reverts back to the hurt he gave me, the darkness he fed into the little light I had left in my life. My mind is consumed with thoughts of him and yet none at all.

"Does this mean I can see him?"

Haymitch goes back to being aloof and distant. "That's your call, sweetheart. You've never listened before."

I glance down at Hyacinth and new feelings tell me they will tear me apart from the seams of my sinew, down to the steel of my heart. How many other times has Cato tried to commit suicide? How close was my son from losing the other half of him? How close was I from being free?

I don't want to leave my son but I must know how close I was, how close we were from the ending of this sad story. Haymitch seems to sense my dilemma and immediately calls for someone to come and take care of Hyacinth. I tell him my preferred choices and Madge is there, accompanied by Prim. Madge doesn't seem to want to meet my gaze while Prim can do nothing but stare at me. I thank them quickly before heading out the door, my heart in my throat and my head charred to nothing.

My legs are burning, tempted to run and see for myself, but they are useless sticks of flesh, making me nearly topple over the very surface of the ground.

The personnel guarding him eye me with one brief glance, knowing who gave me authorization to enter. When the final lock of five clicks, the bolt unhinging and sliding away, I head in, looking at him as he looks back at me.

"Oh, fuck, you're here now?"

I tense and say nothing.

"Well, at least you're quiet."

Why does he act like this? Why does he loathe me then love me, love me then loathe me?

"Who told you, that brawny idiot from 12? I bet it was him,"

Does he mean Gale? "No, Gale didn't tell me."

He only glares at me before turning his head. His hair has been growing long, down to the end of his chin, strands of dark amber now, but there, beneath the strands of burned sunlight, is the angry slash of a man gone mad on his neck, long and thin.

My hand instinctively goes for him, to brush them aside. He doesn't move, doesn't do anything except turn to me and stare, watching me as I look down, inspecting it carefully. I run my fingers over the ragged line of skin, hearing the quiet hiss past his lips, feeling the shudder of his body and the gentle thumping of his pulse.

I sigh, a little frightened with my actions. He'll always be mine.

"It's getting to be too much," I state.

I didn't notice the way his eyes had fluttered closed until he opened them, looking almost annoyed that I disturbed him. "No, what gave you that idea?" he says sarcastically, quirking a brow.

I huff, trying to reign in patience. I don't care how badly he's been hurt by this situation too; he and I, unfortunately, need to work together to fix this. It strikes me suddenly, in this moment, how true that statement is. Because he is mine for always, I need to think of how to cure him of the disease that has taken over his mind. He can't continue to go on in this state of irrational dreaming—with the venom, it's so akin to something horrible, watching manifestations of your fears come to life, drag you under and crush you in your own screaming.

A living nightmare, one that I have to fight every night, every waking moment; just like me…

"What'd you see today?" I ask the question out of nowhere.

He snorts, "Walls and a door I can't go through."

"I meant from the venom," I reply, struggling not to blow up.

"Why should I tell you anything? It's not like you care,"

"That's true,"

He doesn't look surprised by my honest answer; just pained. It bothers me for some reason.

I flick him on the forehead, my lips pursed in aggravation, "Cat got your tongue?"

"You offering to bite me? You used to."

Red overtakes my cheeks, burning them sharply and swiftly. "No, this is serious!"

He laughs a bitter, broken and hearty laugh. "Too bad I don't give an actual damn. Tracker Jacker venom is dangerous in the bloodstream, but injected with heavy doses isn't going to help any."

"You don't know that."

"You don't know how long I've had the shit in me. Since the Games, maybe during, maybe after, I don't know. The extended period of time will fuck you up; you were near a Tracker hive, it's a miracle you didn't die like Glimmer. Then again, you were much tougher."

I don't know if this is a compliment, an assessment of my skills, a snide remark, or a combination of all three. But I accept it and get closer to him until our foreheads are practically touching. I'm not sure why I do this—there's just this feeling in me, right in the pit of my stomach, burning a little, setting the insides of me on fire. He looks a little surprised, a little pleased. His mouth hovers close to mine and he licks my bottom lip.

I never acknowledged it before, not in the midst of my waking thoughts, not in front of others, not in my dreams, not to the walls of my room that can't talk; and especially never to myself. But I miss his touches. I don't miss the roughness of those horrible and painful moments. I miss the fact I had a human to hold. I have Prim and Hyacinth, my mother and Cinna, Gale and Madge, who offer me plenty of comfort. But the physical affection is saved for Prim and Hyacinth.

My body is yearning for another kind of touch, different sensations that involve hurt and flying into oblivion. It sickens me that I might be addicted to the thrill and horror of rape.

He seems to sense this, like he senses everything about me. I don't notice how near we are now until his mouth takes mine and his tongue darts in, confident and powerful and hypnotic, like everything about him. I swallow his moan as I crawl closer, my arms around his neck, the voice in the black of my mind screaming for this to not happen—that he's a danger to survival. I feel the breath of his life on my neck, his nose in my hair.

The depression and loneliness in me, the vices that constrict my life, feel much lighter, floating about me. Still uncomfortably nearby but the heavy weight on my back and shoulders have lessened. My fingers rake into his hair, drawing him closer and he murmurs faintly about how he wishes he could move his arms.

I wish he could too.

He moans a little louder and the fire in me becomes emblazoned with want, a tightening happening between my thighs that I never truly caught before. Rapes were always dry for me.

His breathing and mine are both shallow, quick, and I pull back to breathe, relieved at releasing pent up tension.

"I thought of our son," he says then, catching me off guard.

I wait, listening intently, my fingers continuing to brush through his hair.

"I thought… of a lot of things. Mainly our child; it's hard to think about him without wanting to commit suicide. You've wanted to kill yourself, I'm sure."

I nod, not thinking, even if my mind is clearing from heady thoughts.

"It's the same. In here; where there's nothing but my thoughts."

"It's a dangerous thing."

"It is. Sadly, it's beginning to feel normal. Maybe it's always been. Especially when you can't tell what's real and not, what I do and do not want."

"What's real?"

"Physical things, mainly; the doctors, the walls, the floor, and you… _you're_ both real and not. But you're very real right now, and that's good."

"And what do you want?"

"Besides death…?"

Then there's a pressure beneath me, one bold quick movement followed by slower rhythms, and the grinding of his hips into me is so shocking that I crawl out of his lap, not even recalling how I'd landed in his lap, his legs straightened while mine had locked on either side of his pelvis.

His face is dark. "You shouldn't tease if you don't mean things."

"You shouldn't either."

"Since when—"

"You do it all the time," I tell him, my voice awfully low.

He doesn't answer.

"Why do you torment me?"

"And you don't torment me?" he tosses back.

"Of course not!"

He raises a petulant brow at me, smirking a little.

"Not in that usual sense… No, not in any sense,"

"You love me."

I inhale sharply. "No, I don't."

"Not in the sense I mean. You love the people who get hurt. You're very empathetic. It's partly why you were valuable in the arena, even a little feared."

I don't say anything for a long time, only looking at my hands, curled into fists on the floor, my body wanting to heave.

"…You love me, then?" I ask.

"In a way, I do. You mothered my son. And you're a symbol of power; I can't help being attracted to that."

He's honest and I feel my heart returning to normal.

"It helps that you're actually pretty, once you're cleaned up."

I sigh, rising to head to the door.

"No, wait, come back!" he says, his voice halting me for a moment. "I… I don't mean that."

"You don't?"

"No! I mean, yes, no, I—"

He's screaming and his face turns red, eyes shut but they flicker rapidly beneath the lids. I come forward and press my hands on either side of his face, trying to call him back to me.

"Cato! Cato, you need to wake up!"

The destruction of his mind is evident, his mouth open wide, eyes staring off into some unseen horror, bloodcurdling screams wrenching the thin air in the room. Froth pours from the corners of his lips, veins on his forehead, eyes seeming bloodshot, and I can't help but shake him a little, telling him to come back.

He stops then, collapsing headfirst into my shoulder.

I'm shocked, stock-still. I wait with bated breath… and he lets out a shuddery gasp, whimpering, and the way he looks on me, vulnerable and terrified and child-like, is so unbearable I only hold onto him. I don't know how to act or react around him. Everything in him and about him is so distorted that it may take years to piece him together.

He may never be the same again.

But what was he like before?

Ruthless, certainly; deceptive and brutal, sadistic and vicious… It occurs to me that I may never know the real boy underneath the struggles and blood of a man. He'll be trapped in a world of gore and death, not knowing that he's alive.

In my arms, he resembles our child, from the hair to the skin tone, to the movement of his lips. He opens his eyes and stares at me.

"Go away," he tells me, throat hoarse, the words coming out in choked stutters.

I let him go, wondering what will happen to him while no one is here to protect him from himself.

The hallways are quiet when I step out, the guards looking nonchalant, as though they have no idea what occurred just behind them. And it could be true. The room could be sound-proof. Who would care if a dying man decided to kill himself?

No one but the few who know him…

And I'm the only one he knows.

I've never seen his family, and Hyacinth is too little to understand. I wouldn't tell him anyway. It's too horrible to say…

I go through my door and see Prim, Madge, and my son where I left them, playing on the floor.

"Hello, Katniss," Prim chirps, her eyes twinkling. Madge offers me a tentative smile, which I return. She brightens immensely and I feel a little happy to give her something good. She doesn't have to worry about me being upset.

Hyacinth gurgles, cooing loudly and banging his hands on the battered toy drum we found on the outskirts of the encampment. Then he gets up… balancing on his legs… and starts walking to me.

I kneel automatically, awed by how he's moving, the way he's assured in his steps, reaching for me as I reach for him. He almost trips before righting himself, stepping into my embrace, nuzzling into me.

Prim is ecstatic and Madge claps her hands enthusiastically.

"He walked!" shouts Prim, looking delighted at her nephew's newfound accomplishment.

"Oh, that's wonderful!" exclaims Madge, "He's been trying the past couple of months to do this. He's come close before but he did it!"

I look at her. "He's tried before?"

"Yes, it's around that time. Normally, children begin around the age of two but Hyacinth's a special boy. He just blossoms in everything."

My throat tightens. It tightens because I've missed so much of his life, even with him so close to me. The impairment given to me by his father hinders me in the unconditional love I know my children, Hyacinth and Prim, deserve. I've become hollow, empty, lacking in the ability of being the nurturing caregiver I must be. I hate myself every day. I'm disgusted with myself every day. I yearn to be touched and shun contact. I desire to be listened to but remain silent when spoken to. I can't help but think of killing myself—a constant and daily thought—and only cease when I think of the people who rely on me.

Hyacinth looks up at me, smiling brightly, his Seam gray eyes peering up at mine. And Cato's features are there too, making it all the more terrifying and heart-wrenchingly perfect.

I cry into this little one's shoulder, and I pity him, because he's the world to me, but this tiny little world isn't strong enough to hold my tears.


	26. Canary

**AN: OH MY GLOB YOU GUYS… THANKS TO: Tally Jennifer Youngblood, SEGAgirl82, MarvelousMarvel, sundragons9, MissAmazing101, xxAlizza, Guest, jasmineusfr, Trelaney, Darlene87, sureyna, 408934, idlevine7191, packplay13, Bridget-Malkowski, LikeADarkParadise, Guest /Me, torpidxXR. , Nissy Padfoot, WonderGirl556, lionola, those that have added and reviewed before and my other anons besides Guests!**

**I intended this to be longer but... I don't know what happened.**

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><p><em>Canary<em>

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><p>The edge of my mind feels frayed, running through memories and nightmares of people I love and lose. It's never past tense. The quiet is a constant reminder: I love and lose people each and every single day. My father is a prime example. And little Rue.<p>

I think of them often, normally when alone. But today I ponder as I hold my son close, watching him as he plays with several toys. Rue would have enjoyed playing with him, and my father… I'm sure he'd have loved him, no matter the origin or circumstance. My mother does, even if she doesn't see us often. Although, that's more my fault than hers; she still gets uncomfortable around me but I would sometimes catch her with Hyacinth held close, kissing his forehead and combing his hair.

As long as she doesn't hate him, I'm content.

He holds up one object, in the form of a torn and slightly jagged plane—aircraft from before the destruction of Panem, I reckon. I would sometimes hear about them in class. He waves it animatedly, looking at me for approval. He gurgles, cooing and his voice rises in pitch—a question.

"Yes, it's really nice, huh?" I say.

Hyacinth seems satisfied and blows out bubbles, moving the object about in the air. He then makes it crash and he laughs hysterically. He makes it crash again, his laughter increasing.

This unnerves me and I don't like that my own child is making me feel uncomfortable. I remind myself that children can be amused by anything…yet it doesn't cease the discomfort I feel from watching him destroy something with such deliberate purpose.

It keeps smashing into the ground, and his eyes light up so brightly they rival the sky. My hand reaches out and I try to take the toy. He grips onto it tightly, looking at me with astonishment. I'm a little shocked too. I never interfere when he's playing—I play with him, however, stopping him is unheard of to both of us.

My hand is still insistent, the back of my mind soaked in sounds and images that it doesn't want to remember. It shakes the toy, trying to jiggle it out of his hand. "We don't laugh when things crash or get broken."

He doesn't understand, I don't expect him too. However, the tone in my voice causes him to give a pregnant pause. He reaches for the toy again and I offer him another one. He's satisfied for a few moments before throwing it, the toy going farther than I expected a child close to one year to throw. It's full of force, and frustration, anger, and his father comes to mind.

Hyacinth glares up at me as he tries to get his toy back. I hold it away. "You can have it as long as you don't make it crash."

His eyes well with tears and he lets out one long breathy wail; thankfully, it doesn't last long and he sniffles before he crawls out of my lap. He goes toward the toy he had thrown, picking it up, examining it. Then it's hurling toward me and smacks into my shoulder. I drop the plane from surprise and he's grinning, laughing even, as though I had made the funniest face in the world.

My shock flames to anger because this isn't acceptable behavior. It's too much like Cato.

I rise and he immediately silences. I've never gotten angry with him before and he's never had reason to throw a tantrum against me either. I pace, struggling with the anger of everything I feel, and I tell myself it can't be taken out on Hyacinth, never ever never ever. So I walk as calmly as possible out the door and lean against the wall, collecting my thoughts. It's long before I hear crying from inside and I walk back in when the incessant crying becomes so bloodcurdling it'd freeze the bones of the dead.

He is right by the door, eyes wide and brimming with tears. His face is red as he reaches up for me to pick him up. I haul him to me, not knowing what else to do. I know what I would've done if I hadn't left—it would not have been helpful to either of us, and I felt too angry to think right. It's a miracle I could manage to exit at all. My father would do that often. He never stayed to show how angry he was, coming back a while later and then doting out punishment.

I do the same. But not in the way he would.

"Now, look, I know you were upset, but we don't throw things at people. I'm going to have to spank you, but I'm not mad." He doesn't comprehend still. He'll learn. And the spank is only once, same as I would receive, and harsh enough only to sting.

Hyacinth cries from shock and I turn him around, cuddling him close. Having to hit him does something in me—it feels awful, the sting in my own hand of having to complete an act of disciple.

Did his father ever hit him?

He holds onto me, if only because he has no one else to turn to for my actions against him. He calms down soon, though, and I hand him back his plane. He immediately forgets he's crying and the cause of it, flying it in the thin air of the ground. He makes noises from his mouth and he's happy. I'm breathing a sigh of relief and so happy with the moment of reconciliation that I bury my face into his stomach and blow a huge raspberry into the soft flesh of his skin. He laughs delightedly, squeaking a tiny bit. Hyacinth waves his hands in the air, dropping the plane. He claps as I set him on the soft mesh of carpet. Turning over, he comes and nestles near me, tugging my shirt. I laugh, "You just ate."

He doesn't care and I don't either. He'll need all he can get down here, where the sun is a story and peace is a fairytale and true nourishment is unheard of. He begins to fall asleep, head in the crook of my arm. The quiet is more than nice, my eyes becoming heavy. I rise up, carrying him into the hall and walking to my room. There are a few passersby that watch me, faces becoming slightly red. One even stammers out that I shouldn't do that in public.

It's stupid really. Like they've never seen a woman's breasts before, or didn't know that they existed until I showed up. What do they care anyway? My son has to eat.

He's completely in the world of slumber by the time I reach our room. Placing him on his back, I lay next to him, listening to his gentle rhythmic breathing. It lulls me to sleep as well, a world of night.

It's the best kind of dream.

There's gentle prodding at my shoulder. I almost whirl upon the person, instinct and months of co-habiting with a psycho coming in an instant. It's only Prim, moving away in surprise.

"I'm sorry, Katniss, did I scare you?"

I prop myself up on my elbows. "No, no, it's just me."

"Bad dream?"

"No, I was only startled."

Prim doesn't appear to believe it. She ignores it, "Haymitch sent me for you. He wants to see you in the usual conference room."

"Did he say why?"

"Not to me. I'll look after Hyacinth."

"I know you will, little duck." I kiss her forehead before leaving for the meeting with Haymitch. The uncertainty I normally feel when the prospect of a meeting comes up isn't here. I only come to the room and scan around. Haymitch is holding a bottle with spirits in his hand. He drinks heaviest when it's night, and it's understandable. I'd drink my sorrows in alcohol than in demonic dreams anytime. Too bad I could never stomach the idea of it; nor can I now, with little ones.

I sit beside him, waiting for him to speak. Nothing comes from his form, only the gentle sloshing of the liquid in the bottle.

"How was Hyacinth today?"

I look at him, wondering why he's brought up. "I…"

Suddenly, I feel overcome with shame. I've never been frustrated by my own flesh and blood before, not even by Prim. But my little ones are completely different personalities. Could that be why he can be challenging sometimes? Prim's environment wasn't nearly so…confining either. I'm a terrible mother! How can I raise him when—?

Then I recall that I'm not raising him. Not anymore. Gale and Madge still have custody.

"Not that well, today, sweetheart?"

I sigh. "No, not really,"

"What happened?"

"…I hit him today."

He has the decency to look mildly shocked without being accusatory. He knows as much as anyone else how much I love my son. Physical punishment is unheard of in our relationship.

"Why was that?"

"He played with a toy really roughly and it… it bothered me, the way he acted with it."

"What exactly happened?"

I tell him. He makes no comment until I'm done; only looking at me occasionally before taking long swigs of the alcohol, the scent of it staling the air with its strong fumes. I wonder briefly if he's even following, and I realize I don't mind if he does or doesn't. If he does, he can be helpful, maybe. If he doesn't, it'll be because he's drunk, and I'd like it, too, if he can't remember.

He lets out a sigh into the quiet room. "Parenthood is hard,"

I snort. He laughs, "I know I'm not one to talk. I don't even know half of what you're going through,"

"Damn right you don't."

"No need to get huffy, sweetheart," he says with an acerbity. He only takes my comment in. Good, because I didn't mean it.

We're both musing for a while before he begins talking again. "Do you think you know the cause of this trigger?"

I think, wanting to tell him my inner thoughts. I'm not sure… I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling the skin becoming raw. I stop. It's not good to do that here, where antiseptics are sacred and the thought of blood in my mouth is horrifying. I'm drawn back into the times when I'd be hit with a fist, sometimes an object that's nearby, and the red would pour and pour down my throat until all I could taste was copper and iron and fear. Oh God, why—?

"Hey, you alright?"

I'm shivering. "Yes, just a little cold."

Haymitch makes no response, only waiting for my answer.

"Well, I think it's because… Cato laughs when things blow up."

"I see…" he murmurs, waiting for me. I don't talk to anyone about these things, not even the ghosts of my past or the inanimate objects around me. Everything just wants to accuse me, and pity me, and tell me how sorry they are for an experience no one had control over and no one can ever really understand. I never thought I'd be telling these things out loud to anyone, especially Haymitch, but I am. I don't know how I feel about it yet, but with the light of dawn, I usually do. And it's never good.

I ignore the darkness that wants to swallow me in the blanket of cold I know, smothered in snow banks that beckon me with deep sleep. I'm already speaking.

"I don't know what to do half the time. I don't… technically, have my son, anymore. My mind is too messed up. I want to have my child with me, but I'm so unfit to be his parent. There's too much going in me that it leaves me too…confused about how to raise him."

"Confused?"

"Yes, about… what Cato would tell him; what would happen when I wasn't there."

"A perfectly normal concern for a parent,"

"It's not normal when the other parent is the rapist," I bite out.

"No, no, it's not." He replies solemnly, again not taking offense.

I move about the room, listening to him drink, my mouth drying from the thought of wanting water. I feel parched suddenly and my head is dizzy.

"So… you hit him. You feel guilty?"

"I do. More than anything; I only did what I remember but… it didn't feel as though I had the right to hit him. I don't remember if either of my parents hit me. My mother usually left that duty to my father but… I don't know.

I want to see Cato."

Haymitch looks at me inquiringly. "To find out what, sweetheart? His mind is still infected with the venom. How exactly will you even know the truth?"

"I think I'll be able to learn about that."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Katniss. This is serious business."

I hope so too. I'm the one who knows this most.

It's familiar to the feeling of falling out a tree; or being stabbed repeatedly by your own hand. It's my own fault, I know this, I tell myself this, like the masochist I'm becoming, as I head out in the light of morning, holding Hyacinth close. I come up to the large doors, waiting for the guards to let me pass. Neither makes a move for the keypad. They will not allow it—not with my child so close to a psychopath.

Frustrated, I hold back the scream building in my throat, the urge to beat them senseless until they give me what I fucking want. I don't. I count to ten, like I've been told. It doesn't work. I go back to murdering them in my head. I feel a little better. It just becomes so confining within these walls, miles and miles from the sky.

"Do you know what you're asking us to do?"

I glare at the young man on my right, "Of course I do. And I expect you to do your other part of guarding this entrance—protecting us. That is why there's a slot to look through, isn't there?"

With reluctance, the cell door is open and I enter, the scent of him hitting me. They haven't bathed him in a while. It's not too bad; however, I've seen some animals get better treatment. Mainly in the Capitol except that's not the point. The point is we are not the Capitol. We don't leave, and shouldn't, leave people to rot in their own filth.

Hyacinth is squirming, having been asleep in my arms.

I walk slowly to him, my hand extended already, holding my child in the other arm. My fingers barely brush the top of his hair when he opens his eyes, wide and lost, before becoming an intense glare. He bares his teeth, snarling, when they land on Hyacinth. He grins so brightly then that I almost forget he was the same person. It was as though two people live in him—one a man, another is a beast; both completely mad. He looks beautifully tragic now though. It's sad.

His face dims a little, noticing my expression. He doesn't like to be pitied either. I can respect that. So he sobers quite a bit, his face masking itself, yet it can't hide that he is happy to see Hyacinth.

"You decided to bring him here, finally."

I only nod, setting down my boy, who is wide awake. He doesn't appear to recognize my captor at first. He looks at the face he resembles with caution, his brows furrowing with trying to remember. He begins to tentatively smile and when my captor does it back, Hyacinth is clearly relieved. He crawls slowly, deliberately, with full confidence to sit in the wide lap of the broken insane individual sitting before me, his father. In the moment, they both only resemble boys to me: one born into violence, another born from it.

I keep myself from weeping.

Cato leans down, his nose in Hyacinth's hair. "He smells good. Much better than in here,"

I watch my son tug on the white sleeves encasing his father. There's something horrifying about it. I block it out.

It's quiet for a while, with nothing but the sound of all our breathing mingling together. This cell, where he's kept captive, he seems to transform a little. Hyacinth continues to sit in his lap, gurgling nonsensical phrases. When his voice rises in the form of a question, Cato answers. When Hyacinth begins to clap his hands together and blow raspberries, Cato joins in as best he can. It's fascinating to watch the two of them, frankly. It's as though he's a different person, someone that could've been normal had circumstances been different. Someone I could've loved with all my heart, if neither of us was insane.

Hyacinth… my poor boy… I wonder about the future for him. How will he grow up, knowing he came from a rape victim and a weapon of war? How will he cope with this information? Is it possible that he might wind up being crazy, like us? I've been told that some disorders are genetic.

Will he grow up into a psychopath, a sadist? Does my son have a chance to be human?

My throat swells up and I find myself holding back tears. I bury my face in my arms, pretending to be tired, although I very much am. Sleeping has dreams, however, and dreams are never good anymore.

"Hey, you alright?" His voice cuts into me, sharp, the same tone he'd use when all three of us were together in that mansion of a prison. I look up, ready to kill him. His eyes steel into me and I lose my nerve, my fervor dissipating. His voice says one thing and his eyes say another. Yet again. There's no peace for me here but Hyacinth… Cato needs to be with familiar faces. I had already begun to disapprove of my choice to bring my son here into this hellhole, to talk with the demon of his father. It had to be done though. I don't know why I did it but I chose to give them this time together. My child is calm, almost tranquil, and this is the sanest I've seen my captor in months. My son has a way of bringing falling worlds together, even when we can't keep his little delicate one from tearing itself apart.

It's so, so sad…

"Come here,"

And I do. I nestle my forehead into the crook of his shoulder, ignoring the tainted scent of unclean bonds and skin. He's surprisingly warm; unbearably thinner. Not to the point of resembling the people of 12, although he's lost muscle mass and that's not good.

"It'll be okay." He murmurs to me. Somehow, I believe him. There's a gentle tugging on my braid and I turn, looking at my son as he tries to nibble at the end of my hairs strands.

"Hey, you don't do that," Cato says, giving Hyacinth a soft head butt. I'm almost in shock when Hyacinth only giggles maniacally. He lets my hair go and goes back talking about everything that we, unfortunately, cannot completely understand.

Cato suddenly chuckles.

"What?"

"Nothing, really. It just feels like a long time since I've you pressed against me. Miss me much?"

I swat his shoulder. He only lets out another laugh.

"I suppose you haven't, and I don't blame you."

"…how has therapy been going?"

"Therapy? You think they're giving me therapy?"

"You mean they're _not_?" I hiss.

"I didn't say that. But it doesn't feel like therapy. They just take scans of my brainwaves, check on me now and again, and give me my meds and the occasional dose of Morphing for the pain I get being cramped up. Don't even get me started on how they give me drugs to sleep and see how the fuck my REM patterns are going, or whatever. It gets really tedious, you know?"

"I do, actually; believe me I do."

"Oh, they got you taking some tests, too?"

"They've lessened them a little but I still have them often. Been diagnosed with aggression—which I already knew. I think I was always angry; it just increased during this time. Don't even get me started on all the behaviors I've been told I have: suppression, hysteria, insomnia, panic attacks, hypervigilance, mood swings… it goes on and on."

Cato only keeps staring at me. I stiffen when his lips find the crown of my head, trailing down the side of my face and stopping a hairsbreadth from my mouth.

"I'm sorry… I can't… I can't believe I've done all this to you."

My mind is silenced by internal screams, telling me not to listen to this, that I must hate him forever, that I shouldn't accept his apology. He may not even mean it. He's still trapped within the venom of Tracker Jackers. How can he possibly know what he's saying?

I assume he senses this because he withdraws, becoming a little distant and my body flares for him to come back and touch me, missing the feel of him so close. He clears his throat as he moves his gaze down to Hyacinth.

"What has he been doing out there?"

"What do you mean?"

He doesn't look at me as he talks; he only watches Hyacinth fiddle with his own fingers. "What are his activities?"

"…I'm not sure. I gave him to Madge and Gale."

He raises a brow, not understanding, not looking at me still. "To babysit?"

"No… to have,"

He looks at me, his face distorting so quickly that the demon in him completely overrides any humanity left. I reach for Hyacinth instinctively, drawing him close to me as his father lunges forward, enraged.

"_You gave away our son?_ To those people! Why in the fucking hell would you do that, Katniss?"

It stirs in me, a cold hand embedding itself into my throat, down, down, crawling into my chest—the fear I have of him. He's chained, held back by folds of white, locked in the prison of his mind, and it's still the same; he can still, somehow, make me dread being near him, frightened beyond belief. I don't dare approach, Hyacinth whimpering in my arms, a loud wail beginning to form, building in his chest and mind. I shush him, trying to keep him calm.

Nothing has changed.

Nothing has changed.

_Nothing has changed!_

He's still the one who's held me prisoner all this time—continues to have a hold over me, no matter how hard I try to break free from the attachment he and I have formed to one another; I'll be his forever and I fucking hate it, hate it so much I can die! Why can't everything be normal? Why can't we be a normal couple, fighting over normal couple things? Why can't he and I be in love and raise our son together without the destruction of man looming over our heads?

Because this was never meant to be, that's why! No matter how badly I want everything to be fine and perfect, no matter how hard I try to piece together a semblance of beauty in this blackened world of mine, nothing will ever be normal for me. This whole world has been turned upside down for centuries, humans enjoying the slaying of other humans.

Did his darkness and my darkness just blend together and create something more evil? Are all humans just born evil, with malicious intent? Could I ever do such things to another human being, just because I can and want to?

I fucking hate this world! I'm just so tired of all this guilt and all these feelings burying me alive.

"Why did you give him to them, Katniss? What were you thinking?"

"Oh, because we're so fit to raise him, right? Because I'm perfectly fine and you're not locked up for rape and murder and possible coercion and lack of sanity, right? Because we're just one normal couple: a family, planning to grow our family with children? Who the fuck are you joking, Cato? We're both so messed up! How could I not give Hyacinth to Gale and Madge, who are perfect together and great candidates for raising our son the right way? We can't keep him!"

Hyacinth is wailing and despite my yelling, he and I cling to one another. I may be losing my mind with each second I live, however I still have some sense, a little more than the one before me.

"You didn't even consult me!"

"You're locked up! How can you have any say in the matter at all? You're my rapist for fucking crying out loud, Cato! Do you really think that this is like any other legal case? I had no choice! I thought I was doing the right thing!"

Cato screams with such rage that it brings in the guards, the sound of crackling in the air that seems to have disappeared. My body is torn between getting between them and keeping Hyacinth safe. I shout at the top of my lungs for them to stop, neither one listening, intent on burning him through the skin—the voltage is so high that my hair is sticking on end, though that could be fear; I choose Hyacinth.

Always.

And I know Cato approves of my choice.

The shocks ignite through his body, sending chills up my own, his howls of anger becoming pain and Hyacinth is crying ever louder, in shock of the scene, even though I have already rushed out so he wouldn't see the rest of it manifest into something gruesome. I see Madge coming up the hallway, and I hand him to her. She takes him immediately and the weight of heart becomes heavy, though I try to lift it up high so I can rush back.

The guards still hover his body, twitching in sporadic and quick spasms. I shove them away, feeling indignation at their actions, infuriating me.

"Let him breathe! What's the matter with you?"

"You said that are duty was to guard you!"

"We weren't in need of any guarding—you have him chained to every wall of the cell, including the ceiling, except for the front wall with the door. Are you insane? You could have very well killed him!"

I spin on my heel and fall to my knees, cradling his head.

"She's fucking crazy," I hear one behind me say. "We need to get Haymitch down here. She acts like she's in love with him, it's sick," he continues to speak aloud, wanting me to hear, wanting very much to judge me, even as he gets his radio and the sound of brief static comes out.

I pressed my hand against the side of his face, wanting him to wake up. They did too much to him this time.

Too much…

My fingers are on his neck.

There's no pulse.

No pulse.

He's dead.

And I scream in more fear than I've ever known.


	27. Blue Jay

**AN: ZOMG. YOU. ARE. THE. BEST. FOLLOWERS. EVER. THANKS TO: Alexabee, HungerGamesLover76, Lady Sakura of the Uchihas, thepinkmartini, jasmineusfr, sundragons9, lionola, Me Lea, BelieveInDream, SEGAgirl82, Guest, Beacher, DiamondEnchantress, MissAmazing101, liljennmartin, LikeADarkParadise, hutcherwife, The Giggling Gummy Bear12, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, MarvelousMarvel, FYInichole, A Fire in the Attic, 408934, ILuvMyFangPlushie, soccerstar4242, hungergames666, abugsaunt, MrsJacobBlack9999, any who have added/reviewed before and my anon!**

**Alright, I HATE leaving cliffies, I do, but last chapter was a doozy; my nerves involving this story are so unbelievably on edge. You don't even know. I got so much response last chapter (18 people in ONE DAY) and such lovely praise-filled reviews that, **_**wow**_**, my mind couldn't cope with such kindness for a while. My Internet has been a jerk-wad too so I could calm down. I was wondering what to do with this but, _hopefully_, it's worth enough!**

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><p><em>Blue Jay<em>

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><p>I awake to the scent of bitter roots, steam. I turn my head to the left and watch my mother pour hot tea into a cup. When she turns and finds me looking at her, I guess I startle her pretty bad. Thankfully, she doesn't drop the tea on herself.<p>

"You're awake,"

I turn back to looking at the blank ceiling. My expression must be blanker, since she nervously bites her lower lip.

"Here, we thought you might want something," she offers me the tea.

Propping myself up, I take a small sip, the smell more soothing than the actual taste. I hold it afterward, just sitting up.

My mother says nothing. She only sits next me, a hand resting on my shoulder. In a moment of childlike want, I place my head on her shoulder, leaning in. She holds me close, brushing my bangs from my face and the kiss on my forehead almost makes me cry. I try not to, not in front of her. There's something about crying in front of her that doesn't seem right. She is my mother yet she feels like my daughter too. Why shouldn't she? She had been gone in her own mind for years until just recently, and even now she loses her thoughts.

I chuckle bitterly, shutting my eyes as I cry into her shoulder. I've become like her, like the woman I never thought I'd be: a mother lost in her own mind.

She probably understands me better than anyone on certain terms, the knowledge of not being able to care for her child, losing the father of your children…

"I know it hurts," she whispers.

"But it shouldn't even hurt,"

"Katniss, honey," she says to me, tilting my head up so she can look at me. The tears staining her face are unbearable to witness. "I don't know what is going on in your head. I wish that you had never… what was done to you was unthinkable— Shh, I know what you will say, and that's my point. You can't be like me, the way I left you alone when your father died. This boy—he's not like your father but I know you and he… what was done to him was horrible, too, but you can't leave your child. Not like how I left you.

You have to be stronger."

I fall into her chest, knowing she's right, but I'm tired of being strong.

We're like that for a while, mother and daughter, until I hear the sound of the door sliding, and my children are standing in the doorway, watching me closely. Hyacinth's arms reach out as he babbles, beginning to cry and I take both into my arms as my mother holds us all, trying to make up for time gone.

We leave my quarters soon after, where they take me down to get something to eat. I stomach much very well but I manage to do so. Hyacinth pulls at my shirt but I hold back. While our medical care has vastly improved, there are still potential side effects to nursing when the mother is too much medication. Like me. So we figured on reducing it slowly, having to wean him early, but on occasion won't hurt him.

Not like everything else.

Hyacinth does worry me, but no longer for what used to be my main concerns; although they still tend to be issues I look back on. He's perfectly healthy by all standards, no deformities, and his brain is in good condition. His attitude, however, is another problem.

I try not to think of his father as I head to where the pediatrician is located in the vicinity. Gale and Madge are with me, now his foster parents. I hold my child closer, savoring each moment of proximity I have with him. He doesn't squirm and allows me to keep him in place. Madge touches his head; my heart beats rapidly.

There's a psychologist here, too, a gift of the Capitol no doubt.

I stare at them and they stare back: friendly warm smiles.

My scowl deepens.

"Alright, well, Hyacinth is a good boy, but we've noticed rather aggressive tendencies."

They pause, waiting for me, watching how I take this in: a stupid creature in their sights. "Go on. I'm not a moron,"

This time their smiles are thin. "We never said you were,"

"Well, Miss Everdeen, your son has been here now and again while you've been, er, recuperating and we've noticed things about him. Such as his violent nature when being around children his age,"

"Is he usually violent?" asks the psychologist, a woman in her forties it looks like. Rather sharp in appearance, in both dress and her looks.

"I'm aware of only one incident and it was only toward me,"

They exchange glances.

"Ah, I see. Well, your son, from what we can tell, is generally well-behaved. His attitude is just problematic, especially since he'll need people skills to adapt in the social environment around him."

"I think we can all be use of some people skills," I retort, not liking the way she indicated it as, not just my fault, but of the caretakers I've given him to be raised by, including everyone else besides Gale and Madge. People from the Capitol should just be silenced.

She blinks at my tone. Says nothing to reprimand me, "We've taken footage of him interacting—"

"_Footage_?" Gale touches my shoulder.

"Completely for academic purposes and his own sake,"

A medium sized screen comes on, showing Hyacinth in the middle of the room, playing on his own. He looks quite content; all of us know that he's good with playing on his own and no one usually bothers him when they decide to join.

Several children appear on the screen and he continues to play on, stacking blocks upon other blocks before punching his fist through. This isn't exactly atypical behavior. He always does that. It doesn't bother me the same way he did it to the plane.

Two children, a boy and a girl, come nearer to him, having a conversation of their own. They try to play with the blocks too when Hyacinth begins to screech, waving his arms hysterically. They teeter on leaving and venturing forth. They both dare and I suddenly see my son slapping their faces. They cry, long and hard, as they are taken out of the room and he goes on with stacking, as though no one had even disturbed his play.

"You can see why this is a concern. It's not normal for children to be antisocial."

"Well, excuse my son for not being raised more appropriately,"

"Miss Everdeen, we mean no offense—"

"Hyacinth is a good boy," intervenes Gale, "We play with him all the time and he's never given us any kind of problems."

The pediatrician looks at all four of us before speaking. "We're not saying that he isn't a bad child; his temperament is just worrisome, since this is typical behavior of neglected children. Now, before any of you start, this is not to say that you've neglected him, but we cannot lie and disregard the fact that Hyacinth was raised in a very violent and cruel environment."

He looks pointedly at me. I meet his stare head-on.

The psychologist speaks now. Her voice is too loud. "Hyacinth is also an only child which comes into effect. Despite common stereotyping, there is nothing wrong being raised as an only child, however, he will not learn social skills regarding those his age because of lack of sibling interaction. If I'm correct, your sister, Prim, she is… thirteen or so now. This could begin a chance to learn adapting to environments where there are other children around but she is old enough to be seen as another adult figure in his life. Only children actually fare better around those who are older than them, most of the time; no child is the same. We're just giving a word of caution to recognize that he may take time to warm up comfortably around other kids and infants."

My voice rises, "Why did you even put him in that situation? If he's supposed to 'warm up' how can he do that when more than five children suddenly entered his space?"

Neither answers me.

"Do you people even know what you're doing?"

"Miss Everdeen," grits out the psychologist, "We've been doing this for years—"

"You've been doing it like shit for years then,"

"Do want your child to be helped or not?"

"I would like you to respect what you know about him and not just toss him in such situations! If he's antisocial, was that really the best thing to do?"

Gale is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, "What do you propose we do about Hyacinth then?"

Both of them turn to him a little too eagerly. I'm tempted to smack Gale back. I steel myself inside—he has custody now, too.

"We're just trying to get him to warm up to other children. Like we have stated, there is nothing wrong with the child. He just needs more interaction with other people that are his age or he doesn't know. He'll become too withdrawn if not tended to properly,"

Gale nods, listening. Madge is attentive to them too, glancing at me now and again. She gives me a smile and I return the gesture. I'm not the best mother, I know that… yet it hurts when they make it sound too much my fault. I couldn't exactly wander around my captor's home and watch over what Hyacinth was doing. My rapist and I were just that: rapist and victim. The environment was never going to be a place where he could grow up normally.

I've failed.

There's no need for reminders.

I collapse onto my bed, my son playing with locks of my hair. I laugh as he resorts to putting the tip of my braid under my nose and I gently pin him down, blowing raspberries into his belly.

He falls asleep after a while, his breathing even and gentle.

I allow myself, now, to think of Cato. As I always do when my mind overflows.

He was in my arms for a long time, a long time of just looking at the face of my killer and captor and deepest confidante. This boy who knew my secrets, this man who made me feel, this monster who taught me fear. He just lay so still that I wondered if I had died with him—my own heart couldn't beat. I felt cold. He felt cold. We were the same temperature. We were both so lost.

He just remained in my arms as the sounds of others drifted in and out of my head, circling the world in their drivel as the one who taught me many things just remained still. So horribly still that I peered deep into his face, staring at his eyes, into the skies that would rage fire and pour rain, trying to find light. There was no light. Not for an eternity—it was only dark.

Then they started removing him from me.

Something inhuman wrenched from me then and my body lost the will to move but it clung—clung with desperate fervor—to the still body they were taking from me that was mine. No one knew that body the way I knew it. The way it tortured, the way it moved, the way it thought, the way it blazed.

I felt so many arms encircling me before a final pair of dark broad ones held me tight, and I screamed for them all to let me go. They said nothing to me, only let me howl with unimaginable fear and joy.

Fear because I was losing him.

Joy because I was losing him.

The first was so imprisoning and the latter so freeing.

I finally collapsed into dark nothings and the sound of Peeta weeping for me woke me from my slumber.

I sat in total darkness for a while, watching my door, Hyacinth held in my arms. He didn't comprehend what happened several hours ago and I'm glad he didn't.

My son slept as demons talked to me. I waited in the dark, at times holding my breath, waiting for my door to slide open and confirm what I knew, confirm what I knew will bring me peace and utter sadness: that he couldn't be saved but maybe, just maybe, I could learn to live and move on, for my son. For our son…

It did slide open. Haymitch stood in front of me and we shared the look, the one where we just wanted things said and over with.

I waited.

"He's stabilized."

My heart didn't know whether to falter or not.

"He's in a coma."

It leapt into my throat and falls back with such velocity that I'm left breathing shallow fast gasps, swallowing air, trying to gather the feelings in me. There's so much conflict warring in me, the pain of losing someone close is battling my innate and profound delight that I can finally be allowed to fly. But he is trapped within a mind that still battles a horrible sickness, and because my body is chained to his, I, too, am stuck in that coma, trapped within the confines of space and time.

Haymitch was patting my back, holding me close, the scent of alcohol and humanity filling my nose. It stings, burning, and I realized I'm weeping. Why was this happening? When it seemed to get close to freedom, not just for me, but for him too, that reality and life decide to attack, bringing us further down into the abyss.

It's so frustrating, demoralizing.

He didn't say anything, he only held me and I was grateful for that—that he doesn't bother sugarcoating anything. It could be why they always sent him to be the one to tell me bad news. But wasn't this good news too? I do hate my captor, and I don't know if I'll ever forget his actions, even with the knowledge of the venom. I don't know…

I'm quiet with my mentor, wrapped in the silence of my heart and the thickness of my tears.

When he left, my mind raged and burned, hot with insanity and pain. My hands reached out to hurt the visions in front of me, my throat parched as I scream. Peeta was yelling, trying to comfort me in this distress, telling me that this is for the best.

It couldn't be!

And he soothed me, attempted, in his kind and warm way, but the red blinded my sight, and when I came out of the violence of my soul, I looked at the chaotic whirlwind of my quarters, dressers overturned, the bed sheets and pillows torn through by fingers and teeth, stained with moonlight spilling onto the floor, making it eerie.

Peeta continued to murmur, my heart matching his words, beat for word. I let it envelop me for a while, sinking to my knees, laying my head down onto my crossed arms. I let out a groan of despair, not wanting to remember but I felt as though I must remember for my sake, for my captor's sake.

It's… like Snow was winning—he _is_ winning. The world had lost and it remained in the palm of a tyrant. I don't understand Snow, his reasoning. He meant for us to be the faces of the war—one a savior and the destroyer. But what was he doing? Where did he stand in this?

"Katniss!"

I didn't look up. I curled further in.

"What happened here?"

Hands gripped my upper arms, lifting me firmly yet gently up.

Gale put his hands on either side of my face. I looked over his shoulder at Madge, her face forlorn and still.

"Where's my baby?"

"He's with Prim and Cinna," she answers, coming forward and taking my hands into hers.

"Catnip," breathed Gale, his warmth seeping into me.

I pulled away, unable to handle anything suddenly. Their voices rang with pity, even more with worry and I couldn't take their complacent compassion. The thing was, I couldn't really handle much anymore and the destruction of Cato… it left me worse than dead.

I felt as though I'd finally found the justice that I so desperately needed, found the freedom I craved, but my heart was breaking with each second of knowing he's lying on a bed, sleeping a living death, and there's nothing I could do.

I just buried my head into my hands and wept for everything and everyone.

I let out a sigh. Night has fallen again. I seem to do nothing except sleep but I've been improving. I still have nightmares; I still have trouble depending on others and being overprotective of my little ones but improving; slowly yet surely, with each crawling dawn.

Prim is in bed with us now, I hear her mumbling in her sleep. I touch her forehead and pull the covers up to her chin. I leave Hyacinth with the smaller, thinner blanket. He still tends to kick it off when he sleeps and I get nervous about him suffocating in his sleep. He's past that age now, I'm certain, yet I get very anxious when it comes to his safety, regarding anything.

Walking out into the place I will never call home, I find myself stopping to look past the door where my captor is caught in a world I can't enter. It's been four months.

And interrogating Snow wasn't an option. He pleaded insanity around the time Cato fell into his death sleep and he's been locked away from the world, hiding in a fancy prison cell, where I don't know if he's lying about it or not. But he's always lied and I don't care what happens to him. I just want him to die for all the transgressions, all the wrong he's placed on us.

No one authorizes the room except the occasional doctor. Who would care about the insane boy who raped a girl?

I do.

Sadly, I do.

I walk to his bed's side, lean over and brush some hair away from his face. Taking some scissors, I bring the trash can closer to the bedside, cutting the locks away until they're even. Not shorter, but cut enough so that it looks well-groomed. I don't know why I do this. It's probably just sympathy, but I don't have to answer to anyone. No one fears my killing him anymore so when I do get noticed, they allow it to continue. With the knowledge of the venom, my hand moves to cut his hair and not his neck. With the threat of Snow removed, I can try to bury him in the folds of mending instead of killing.

The whole course of life has been completely denied to me and him, to all the people we knew.

I had asked one day, when the sky was incredibly blue, I remember, if anyone had inkling to where Cato's family was. They did. They were murdered in their home a week after Gale and the other rebels freed my son and me from his home, my prison.

That would explain the lack of people around him. I had been told that it was all for the sake of security issues, which could've been partly true. When I used to want to kill him…

Hyacinth and I are truly the only ones he has left.

I've yet to bring my child here, where the scent of his father is overwhelming. I badger the hospital staff to keep tending to him. They do. Every other day. Sometimes every other week. No one truly cares and the bitter anger swirls into my whole body. I had people looking for me, fighting to retrieve me back.

Cato really has nobody. They'd leave him to rot in his own piss and flesh if I had nothing to voice on the matter. But I do. So he's kept clean.

I sit next to his bed, watching him. I wonder what is happening in his mind now. Does the venom infect his mind, even in this desolate state, where he can't see anything? I don't know if he can hear anything. I've never tried to communicate with him on that level. Partly, I have nothing to say. And another part of me has no desire to talk to him. I want him to be alright but…

I'm not sure of much anymore.

I've been asked several times, by both professionals and loved ones, if I wanted to take him off the life support.

I had almost conceded to the plan. I seriously considered it. There were so many benefits, to everyone, if I just decided to kill him: his misery would end, I could move on completely, no one would consider him a nuisance, my family and friends wouldn't have to see me with him all the time and Hyacinth…

Our child is what stopped me.

How would feel, growing up, without the knowledge of his father? They had said that there was always a possibility of him coming back to the land of the awakened. But, u, as we all know, fate doesn't smile too kindly on either of us so we don't even talk about it anymore. His mind is so far gone, according to the doctors that he will remain this way for the rest of his human life.

I could end it.

How would I explain that to a child, to a grown man, Hyacinth during any stage of life, that I had been the one to kill his father? He may understand, given the circumstances and the relationship involved, but I cannot deny that my son and my captor had shared something as well. Hyacinth is not just mine. He is Cato's too.

So I don't kill him.

But I may, if it ever has to come to that. Our son is always first.

He would agree, always.

I hear the alarm on my wrist, telling me that it's time to go to my therapy session.

I ignore it for a while, fighting time, before I rise and look over my shoulder at his still figure, where not even his breathing is indicated.

Down the hall, past doors, past blurring images, I come to the room where they try to peel back the layers of my mind. I don't let them, not really. They all ask me such superficial and stupid questions. They take their time with getting me to open up. I have enough patience for that left: to keep people out. I don't want people to know the extent of my mind.

"Did you visit him today?"

Not a stupid question.

"Yes,"

"How often do you see him?"

"Often,"

"Describe how that looks,"

I keep my mouth shut.

A sigh escapes into the room. "You know that no one can help you if you remain uncooperative. He's been dead for a while,"

"He's not dead,"

"He's in a coma. He may as well be."

"I didn't ask for your opinion,"

Without another word to her or to me, I walk out of the room, knowing the hour had been spent anyway. Hustling down the winding corridor, I head to Effie's room. I knock on her door, wait. She opens the door, appraising me before allowing me to step through the door.

"How did it go with the—?"

"I want a different one."

Effie lets out a sigh. "Katniss, how do you expect for these to work if you don't even five any of them a chance. You've already had more than six this month alone."

"I don't like the way she talked about Cato,"

She stays for a bit, light in her eyes. "Ah… I see…"

Without the make-up, which she has slowly weaned herself off of, occasionally putting a lot and then it's considered minimal, she's very lovely. I like her better without it. She looks more human to me, and the natural light in her gaze is comforting, something I never would've seen if she had still decided to wear tons of powder. Or those godforsaken deer eyelashes…

She looks past everything for a while, her hand pressed to her mouth, the other cupping the elbow the one held up. "We can try to find another one. What did this one say that was offensive?"

"She said that since he's in a coma, he may as well be dead."

Effie's face darkens slightly. "Unacceptable behavior. You know my feelings when it comes to that boy, Katniss, but she had no right to tell you something so against the decorum of a psychologist. There are a few leading psychologists left. This time, you can pick him or her out,"

"Effie, why can't I just someone here help me?"

"What do you mean, dear?"

"I can talk to you all just fine. Is it really necessary to talk to a psychologist?"

"You may need even a psychoanalyst by this point, however, people in that profession lean more towards a rare novelty. There's a difference as well in talking to us and talking to someone you'll never form too deep a connection with. That's their whole purpose, to listen to you and to help you through your ordeals. It's more intense because they're total strangers with the knowledge of the psyche. Give it one more try, alright?"

"…Alright."

She smiles before opening her arms and I walk into them.

"Everything will be better."

I do hope she's right.

I can't just hope anymore.

I head out to see Haymitch and Cinna. I find them outside, talking in almost conspiratorial tones. Haymitch laughs before pulling out his container and drinking deep. Cinna turns around to greet me.

"By the looks of it, you hated this one, too,"

I laugh a little, "I did. Utterly awful,"

"They usually are, sweetheart,"

"Haymitch, I came to request something,"

They stare at me. My mouth dries, heart hammering.

"What is it?" Cinna urges me, smiling sincerely. It's such a contrast to Haymitch's scowl but it's enough of a confidence boost.

"I want to go and see Snow."

"Snow? What for? He's locked up,"

"I know. I want to kill him."

Cinna gives me a sad smile, his hand going for my shoulder, squeezing gently. Haymitch just gives me bitterer grin.

"Welcome back, Mockingjay,"

And I can tell he sincerely means it.

Because we set out as soon as the sun rises, to the Capitol, where everything starts and ends for the people of Panem. It gleams, yet it's not as iridescent as before. The blinding sunlight, greeting the ashen earth, seems to inch slowly, with a sense of finality.

I had told my family that all of this will be over soon.

Even Hyacinth, his mouth still not producing words, gave me some departing ones. His coos are enough to hold me together.

I wasn't planning on doing this. But I've had enough of it all. I've just had enough of losing and being the helpless girl I've become.

The day is rather stunning, even with some clouds hanging overhead.

The world is going to watch however. Everyone who has felt the oppression of this tyrant will finally see him fall and never come back up again.

Haymitch and Cinna handle the delegations and the right to kill our president.

The people of the Capitol don't object too readily, if really at all. Only a minority care. We've had months, including the year where I was held in District 2, to break them out of their theatrical necessities for gore. Most of them have become convinced of the dictatorship. We've still had several breakouts of dissent over the matter, but they've been lessening by the day.

This is relieving since I'm not the greatest condition. And the people need their Mockingjay.

They need her now more than ever and no one realized it until now.

I didn't plan on killing him today. It was such a spur of the moment.

I just want this done with.

I want Cato to be awake for this. But he can't see it. We waited too long to seek the justice we needed. He'll never know that he's been avenged. He'll never know…

Snow walks to the platform, where he kneels slowly, grunting a bit. His face I messier and all of him is reeling from harsh fumes. They haven't been taking good care of him. Which is shocking; I'd have thought he'd get the royal treatment but, then, Haymitch, Cinna and Gale were the ones who, ultimately, decided how a true prisoner was to be kept, made an example of. He offended not just the laws of nature, but of mankind. He pinned child against child for years.

He had his chance to change that. All of our past presidents did.

The world didn't have to be so corrupted.

But the leaders of the world never bothered to care.

Therefore, I won't either.

The people of Panem need a protector. I won't take on that responsibility because I'm so incapable of being one. They'll need a new leader to take on the job, to guard them as they should have been taken care of all that time ago. I am their Mockingjay because… I choose to be the bird, I choose to fly through the storms, to be the little thing that people can recall when they need to and forget when they can continue forward. I'm the good choice for it, more than ever: I'm insane. I won't be totally remembered, not completely forgotten.

I'll just be the broken girl who went out to heal a broken world.

And even that will be a lie.

I'm a broken girl seeking revenge.

I'm a broken girl wanting the death of her assailant.

I'm a broken girl waiting for a kingdom to come that will finally help us all.

My children must come first.

I just stand before him, thumbing my bowstring, reverberating inside my palm, a quiet thrumming song.

"You look so eager to get this over with,"

I get down on his level, the scent of blood hitting me, and I have to breathe hard to fight back the flashbacks of the dying children I'll always remember. Then he smells of roses and it's more nauseating then the blood. It smells too much; lies wrapped in crimson petals.

"Just answer me. Why did you do this to us?"

He grins. "You want the truth?"

I only nod, getting to my feet, and taking a few steps back.

I notch my arrow. No one breathes.

"Because I could do it,"

I breathe outward, following my arrow as it slices through the air.

"You two were perf—"

I've had it.

It lodges in his head, right between his eyes.

The world screams with cheers and shock.

I get onto my knees, reaching out, with such caution my arm feels akin to molasses.

There's a very indication of his pulse, signifying he hasn't died completely yet. I open my hand and wring the life out of him, whatever is left. I hold my grip until the thumping beneath my skin is gone. Cinna and Haymitch come over to me, offering me their hands to get up. I find myself to be shaking violently. They both hold me up, walking me slowly away, from the people below who lament and jubilate.

Inside me, everything is just silent.

Except Peeta, who is weeping with joy and for me.

I avenged him too.

The din becomes a whisper in my ears, relief overwhelming me. His looming presence seems to just be gone, a threat no longer that could easily rise back to power. Snow is dead to the world. There will probably be some problems fixing our nation but it's nothing compared to the trials we've all faced.

I've done what I needed to do, what I've always wanted and was meant to do.

We head back home immediately, home, where the people I care about are.

My being wants to sing, my father's voice softly echoing.

I don't.

What does a bird do when it's too broken by purpose to do what it needs to do?

I had power and no voice. I've spoken and the power is gone. I've done what needed to be complete.

How does a dead person start a new life when life itself was too surreal to comprehend?


	28. Swan

**AN: THANKS TO: thepinkmartini, A Fire in the Attic, YODELL, Beacher, criticderomance, Marisa Mellark, XForgottenxMemoryX, MarvelousMarvel, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, lionola, S. Martz, jasmineusfr, CelestialMacabre, jwalz66, InuyanaIris, petra ppsilvia, revanha, Nissy Padfoot, royalcounty92, couturecouture, Mandy330, GreyWitch13, I-piTy-Da-FoOl, LiveUrLife2013, TwinWarriors95, Latinagal, AliceW, OnlyYu, xXdarkestXdemiseXx, Bastetmoon, Fair Little Bird, K-W-D-Y-C, HungerFan.1824, Bestbird, anyone who has reviewed/added before and my anon!**

**This would've been up much, **_**much**_** sooner but, you know, shit happens. And this chapter was originally a **_**lot**_** shorter; yeah, Katniss wanted more. Got 10 pages of 10-size font. BOO-YA.**

**I'm dedicating this chapter, not just to all of you, my wonderful readers, but to my dog. We had to put him to sleep the 29****th****. He wasn't even 3 years old. **

**Love you all!**

* * *

><p><em>Swan<em>

* * *

><p>Hyacinth is snuggling close into my chest, his breath even.<p>

I stare out into the distance, watching the sun rise, creeping golden fingers out onto the world. Each new dawn is especially frightening, for reasons I'm partially aware of and others that I'm not. The blue sky that stretches for centuries is tinged in soft pink before blinding me with this intense azure color.

I've been looking out for hours. I haven't been able to sleep properly in years and the toll of the events that have happened within the past year or so have almost obliterated any kind of attachment I had left to the place where I can allow myself to talk to the dead ones I love.

I just sight quietly, lying carefully onto my back and I give the ceiling a thousand yard stare.

My fingers stroke through my son's hair and he sniffles in his sleep; the strong beat of his heart on my rips causes me to cry, and I hold back the sudden urge to sob uncontrollably. It's not working too well so I gently, sweetly, carefully, place my little boy on the bed, watching him become a haze of beauty in my blurred vision.

I head to the bathroom in my new and shockingly clean room and as soon as I close the door, my very body is racked by weeping. I make sure it's nearly silent, so I won't wake him up, but it doesn't take away the power of it. I'm shaking hard, fingernails digging into my palms, grinding my teeth so hard the clenching is harsh in my ears.

The world is tipping off balance.

It falls, falls into the void of black and lands on something solid, a curving shape that stabs the earth yet holds it in more place than it could ever have on its own.

I hear singing, shafts of light breaking the dark, and I look up, searching for the sun but it's not the sun—it's something brighter, more surreal, more akin to a feeling of deep love.

It's just my imagination and the denial of such a heaven nearly causes me to throw my head back and give a long mournful cry.

I plant my face into the tile, exhausted by emotion.

Once I'm sure I've collected myself, I walk out of my little dark corner and back to bed.

Prim is sitting on the bed, demure and delicate, holding onto Hyacinth's hand. He's still sleeping.

I walk over to her and she peers up at me intently, because I can't hide the truth from her. I have to pity my sister in some ways, even though she's incredibly strong on the inside. I don't know how she can do it. Dealing with my mother who still wanders into the past because it's less painful than the present; being one of the caretakers of my son; dealing with me, a pathetic nothing that doesn't know the difference anymore from living and death because everything is so unrealistically painful that I've done nothing but cry for days.

"You want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. She doesn't need to be burdened with any more than she already deals with. It abhors me that she attends to me more now than I can ever do or compensate for her. My little girl, not even a woman, living the life of a caretaker in silence, never voicing against it, never whining; she's grown significantly during the time I've been gone and it hurts to see her this way now. I left and she was a small little duckling, fearfully and courageously stepping into the world. Now she's this person I don't know, this beauty that came and replaced my Prim with a girl who's older, vastly wiser and yet still Prim.

She still would rather curl up with Buttercup than go charging into battle, but she still is someone new.

I look at the back of her shirt as she moves to look at the surroundings, then Hyacinth.

No ducktail.

Not in months.

"Haymitch sent me to get you. Something about an appointment?"

"Oh… the therapist,"

"How have those been going for you?"

I shrug.

Prim licks her lips, "Do you want me to tell them to stop?"

I look at her, slightly aghast, "You're going to tell them to leave me alone?"

"Why not?" she asks, a defiant tone taking on her sweet voice that I've never heard before, "I can help you—we can help you, if you'd just let us,"

"It's not that simple, Prim,"

"Life is never that simple, Katniss. You know that better than anyone,"

She covers her mouth with one hand, staring at me in shock, "Oh, Katniss, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say—"

"Don't apologize for the truth, little duck. You have a point. It's just difficult to remember for myself."

She doesn't appear to be the slightest bit consoled by the harshness of her words. I know that I do need to hear them now and again, and since she's one of the few people who have any reign over me I don't mind if it comes from her.

I place my hand upon her shoulder. She's gotten taller, barely brushing my chin now. I kiss her forehead and I wipe a tear that comes out. She sniffles and holds me tight before going over to Hyacinth. He doesn't stir.

Heading out into the hall, I listen to the footsteps that belong only to me.

Ever since I killed Snow, things have died down further considerably. The few people who remained loyal to our past president had finally come out their stupor of devotion and took into the fact that he was always a sociopath. They didn't like to admit it—many of them were too used to the entertainment that they received from children murdering children. This high that made them feel superior to the rest of us. They don't say it but it's what most of them would think: where would they go to be entertained now? What will happen?

About two weeks ago, a month after that bastard's execution, we had all gone to a meeting: Haymitch, Effie, Cinna, me; Gale and Madge; and the woman who ruled all of 13, Alma Coin.

She had come in with cordiality, daring to come up and pat my back with something tied between both pity and congratulations. Needless to say, I disliked her immediately, not appreciating her easy candidness towards me. She knew that she had done the wrong thing and did not make amends. She only took her seat and had no objection to being reserved, which didn't bother me. She just unnerved me terribly.

She looked at each one of us before she opened her mouth to speak. "It's good to see that you've finally agreed to a meeting,"

Effie almost pales and I see in my peripheral vision Haymitch squeeze her hand and Cinna gently touch her elbow.

"With Snow out of the way, we figured it was time," Cinna answered, all poise and quiet grace but he was the farthest person from a fool.

"The Mockingjay looks well rested," said Coin.

We all knew she was lying: I was and still am the least presentable creature in the whole of the district. I was an aversion to some women in the district, a completely useless individual when it came to anything of importance for functioning and helping in said district; I had never bothered before to make myself presentable but it had gotten to the point where I would simply put on whatever raggedy garment was nearby, fearing my body and fearing people looking at; my hair vastly thinner, feeling brittle in my anemic digits—overall, just a terrible guest who misused their generosity. There was a part of me who would occasionally feel guilty but the indifference was always vastly stronger because I hated almost every living soul that breathed and could move through time; I'm just stuck in one moment.

"You've considered my proposal then?"

It took me a moment to notice that she had addressed me.

I looked at my three guardians. "What does she mean?"

I catch her eyes narrow slightly and her shallow smile slips.

Haymitch turned to me, "Why don't I have Coin mention that to you?"

"Of course," she told us all, and the smile looked worse when worn very, very thinly, "I had proposed to Haymitch and the others that we should consider taking precautions to future Games being done in the future—to ensure that such violence will never be done to the people of the districts,"

Cinna tilted his head to look at her and the bleakness in his eyes was enough to make me hold my breath, "The people of the district are our only priority?"

"Most definitely," she affirmed, "It's only fair that the children of the Capitol be put through the same punishment—"

"No!" my voice rang out with such wrathful finality that I had to wonder if it was really me who spoke.

"Everdeen—"

"Absolutely not," I almost cry out, "I won't stand for it."

"The Capitol must learn that it is no longer in control. It's merely a stratagem to employ the power of the districts,"

"Then we will be no different than the Capitol. I am the Mockingjay still—I forbid such an action to take place!" I quietly screamed, my voice harsh to my own ears.

"It's not that bad of an idea," Gale said to my left on the opposite side.

"What? Of course it's a bad idea!"

"I'm only thinking aloud about what they had done to us for decades. I think it would be fair to deny them the liberties that they stole from us for so long,"

I seethed in silence, looking at my best friend with horrible bloodied new eyes. He simply could not be serious. Gale and I know each other better than most people could ever hope to. He is still headstrong, eager to find the justice and equality that he's yearned since I've known him; but he can be vengeful and absolutely spiteful when he desired to be—traits that I attribute to myself frequently.

But the darkness in my life stills suffocates me and the burden of it weighs so heavily that I abhor anything that could possibly feed it.

"Gale, you would tell me often how you wanted to be different from them—this will be the exact same thing!"

"No, Katniss, it wouldn't be. It's justice,"

"It's despicable," intervened Madge, looking between the two of us, "I am in full agreement with the Mockingjay. It may seem justified now but say what if the Capitol decides to rebel against us down the line and then another full-fledged war comes about. How can we possibly preserve our race with war?"

Gale glanced at her then back to me, caught between worlds. He and I know how difficult it can be on the streets of poverty—gray upon gray with no food or water or shelter. However, thankfully, Madge could be convincing and it looked as though he may change his mind after all, even if for her. The last thing I want is for him to fight again. I can't bear it.

"I refuse to be a part of something so terrible! What good will it do to punish the children of the adults who put us through such pain?" I rebuke, looking at everyone with frantic panic.

"Grief is a very powerful emotion," Coin said to me, "But it has to be used accordingly."

She was right. When someone dies, it's not the person who's gone who is consumed with an overwhelming sense of loss but the ones who are left behind. If the children are punished, it keeps the adults in line because nothing is stronger than grief and fear—these are the emotions that are so renowned throughout the world that everything makes sense when a person is enveloped by it.

Then I thought of Cato's face—the way he looks to be sleeping in the whiteness of his living coffin.

About all of us who went through the destruction of the Games, the war, the endless death caused by such an authoritarian society. No one here is a stranger to the hurt that death likes to cloak over us. Peeta cried into my soul and objected vehemently to the idea of punishing any more innocent souls.

In the darkness of my body, the empty void, Cato screamed loud and resonant that he doesn't want it to happen to anyone else either.

"I don't want it,"

"Are you prepared to be the leader of the world?"

Coin had inquired it to me again and I looked at her plainly, heat in my very skin. "No, but I will not follow anyone who suggests an idea so counterproductive to what we strived and bled for. This is not what I am about."

"Then what are you about?"

"Finding and keeping peace with the enemy because the children are innocent; especially for the children. I fight for life."

No one said anything for a long time, stretching into such a thin line that the tiniest of breaths could've swept it into the air.

"I agree with the Mockingjay," Haymitch finally said.

I looked at him, grateful. He and I had never seen eye to eye yet, during the past couple of months, he had proved to be an invaluable companion to me and I had no question of his motives.

"I do too," Effie agreed, Cinna nodding his head, green eyes staring off into the distance.

Gale finally came to our side with much convincing from Madge. I couldn't hate him for being part of the opposition. This was something that he always believed in—a cause that no one but his own memory and heart could understand. But he glanced at me and when our eyes met, I swore there was a flicker of something tumultuous in his gaze, asphalt on fire, then it died down and I felt his compassion.

Coin was on her own and she didn't take it well, with the way she stormed off, in a calm and diplomatic manner, of course, out of the conference.

Afterward, the feeling I got from her increased terribly, and I would often keep Prim and Hyacinth close to me. There was no way I wanted to leave them alone in her company, even though I didn't see her after that.

With the war officially rendered final, I pleaded severely with Haymitch that we all go back to 12.

He agreed readily, telling me that I didn't have to beg at all.

We haven't moved yet, but I know it will be soon.

I find him waiting for me at the end of the hallway, drinking spirits out of a much thinner flask.

"You're cutting down some,"

He smiles a little, "Yeah, Effie bitches about it a lot,"

I found the relationship between the two of them a little bit of a surprise, considering the way they tore at each other during the time Peeta and I were in the Games. They are both far from being completely changed—she's still spastic about punctuality and manners and he's still gruff, but they work it out well.

Nothing has been said as to how deep the relationship between them has gotten but I can tell that they're much closer than before. She's mellowed out, stopping wearing the fascist and ridiculous wear of the Capitol and he really has been reducing his alcohol intake, much to the relief of us all. We would never tell him—he hates preaching—but we don't want him to go too soon.

We need both of them more than they know.

"You ready to go to your appointment?"

"As ready as I'll ever be,"

"You can handle it," he tells me, softly patting my shoulder, "You're a strong girl,"

I don't feel that way so much any longer.

The chair is lumpy and not comfortable at all. My back cries out for something more solid as my eyes begin to droop. It's peaceful yet I can't relax.

"How are things?"

I don't say anything.

"...Your execution of Snow is still the raging news,"

"I know,"

"Ah, a response,"

"I don't need counseling,"

"Most people in your situation believe that they don't,"

I find myself offended and shut up.

"You have a child, yes? How is he doing?"

"Better than me,"

"Oh?"

"He's not stuck listening to someone ramble about my feelings,"

"This will only be as difficult as you want to make it,"

"It will only be difficult because there's nothing for me to say,"

"You're saying things now. No, don't be silent again. I'm here to help you,"

"I don't need anyone's help. I've made it on my own for years with no one to help me and I can do it again just as easily."

"You don't need anyone's help?"

"No, I do not."

"So the support that you've been getting from your friends and family doesn't count as help?"

"No, it counts as pity is what it counts as,"

"Pity? How does that count as pity?"

"Because they didn't go through what I went through. They don't know anything about how it hurts to just breathe; it's good that they don't."

"You suffer from anxiety?"

"Much of the time,"

"Ah, I see. And do you take medication for that?"

"Not so much anymore. I'd rather not become a junkie on top of everything else in my fucked up existence,"

"You're angry,"

"Excuse me?"

Petulant and irritatingly patient silence…

"Fine, of course I'm angry. I don't need to be here. I've told people many times before—if they just leave me to my own devices, I'll be perfectly fine. I don't understand what the problem is with me being alone."

"There's a different between being isolated and choosing isolation; the same way there's a difference between being alone and being lonely.

A lot of us believe that we can be just fine on our own, but we can't do it all the time. Humans are naturally social creatures,"

"This is coming from someone who used to murder children for fun."

"We are not here to talk about my background, Miss Everdeen."

"Well your background is exactly my problem. All of you sickened me—the way you threw us to die for your own amusement and left us to rot in our minds. You think you're so great, don't you?"

"Not at all; your xenophobia is quite normal, I think, from what would happen,"

It sounds like something Cinna would say. I turn to look at him, this man with slightly pale skin and defiantly green locks, shades of leaves. I can't tell if he genuinely means it or not but I can't seem to be completely aloof anymore, not as much.

"…well, I don't believe in being sociable so I must not be human."

"You certainly have feelings however. There's nothing wrong with feeling,"

"Yes, there is! It's exhausting being torn up by your own emotions. Do you know that, huh? How men and women either look at me with disgust or pity and then my friends are too overprotective and doting and my family is still trying to patch itself together and then there's my rapist to contend with."

"…Let's take this a little bit at a time. What bothers you about these men and women?"

"Just— just the way they look at me. When it's not a pitiful stare it's an accusing one. It's not exactly unknown that I didn't try to run away from my captor and that I have chosen to sire and raise his son. I don't respond when they call me a whore for trading up my body for life, because that's their business to rot for, but that doesn't mean I don't hear."

He jots down notes quickly; I try not to react negatively.

"What about your family and friends?"

"My son and sister are as wonderful as ever. I've nothing against them. It's everyone else—Gale gets too overprotective now, Madge has this ability to fight now when, before, I would be the one guarding Gale's back, and I just don't think anyone understands."

"No one will truly know how to understand. As you said, it's not their experience but your own that you must trudge through. With Gale, he's your best friend? Well, there you have it. You feel pushed out of the way by her because you used to guard Gale's back and now this girl, seemingly weaker, is now your successor. These two must be close to you, at least Gale, but you had been gone for a long time, therefore, they developed a relationship you never saw, one none of you probably saw coming, so now it's something threatening. Am I getting it right so far?"

Slowly, I nod. "But I don't even understand why. I don't envy Madge at all, not in the typical sense."

"And what is the typical sense?"

"Looking pretty and shit like that,"

He snorts out a laugh; the side of my mouth is tempted to twitch.

"So, why do you envy her then?"

"…I don't know. Probably that she got to live. So she's better at raising my son too,"

"Have you told her this?"

"Yes, I gave my son to her a long while back."

He's silent for a few moments, staring at me and his eyes soften, dark coals that burn warmth. "That could be another part of the issue involving them. Now, about your rapist, Miss Everdeen…"

"What about him?"

"Everything about him! The way he smells and would talk and hit me then I find out that he's actually under the influence of Tracker Jacker venom. How can I hate someone who had destroyed my very existence in a single moment when none of it was their fault?"

"You don't."

I pause and stare at him.

"You don't hate."

"…then what do I do?"

"You forgive him."

"I've done that."

"Then what's your problem, Katniss? Who are you angry at?"

"_I'm angry at myself!_ Okay?!"

I'm seething, hot, hot tears burning the sensitive skin near my eyes, the fatigue of no sleep accompanying the sting. My insides are balled into a tight coiled rock of shame and I'm trying to let it go, just allow it to release, but it nestles deeper into the core of my soul and it cackles, an evil stone crying out.

"Why?"

I can't breathe, the room closing in, squeezing me into this tight ball of despair—because all I can do is remember the despair I feel every day: it's the only thing that keeps me going.

I don't hear the name of the girl who has left my soul, the one who could sing.

These feet are carrying me out of the room and down the hallway, listening to the rapid of the steps, rushing through life, trying to find meaning and significance again.

I finally collapse onto my knees, breathing shallow gasps.

It's true. I've been angriest at myself this whole time. Everything is just my fault but no matter how hard I try not to play the victim, not to let myself continue to be victimized by myself and my past, I always come out beneath the earth, dying in decay.

Why?

Why?

_ Why?_

It just bangs in my skull, that one dead word thrashing violently in me. The thing is, I don't know why, not completely—

But then, I may be lying.

I probably do know why and just refuse to admit to the cause of the why.

My emotions are frayed, pulling into me, and I'm screaming fire, my throat burning itself hoarse. My body begins its convulsions, as it usually does when pushed to the limit nowadays. A strangled cry of rage pours out into the ground and I hold onto me, trying to keep myself together. The shaking doesn't stop for a while; when it does, my body is still, so still I wonder if I've died: a statue that can't recall the meaning of life and blood.

Once I've regained my composure, I stand to full height, wiping the beads of sweat off my forehead. Leaning against a wall, I let out a quiet sigh, listening to it drop in the air, completely noiseless and yet it speaks to me.

I didn't expect those answers to burst out of me back there. The whole ordeal is emotionally exhausting. I feel too drained to even think and yet that seems to be the only thing that I not only want to do, but have to do. My head falls into my arms, wrapped around my knees, curled up into my chest.

I don't think for a long time. I desire to but no thoughts come. It's silent everywhere inside me. My hand feels the faint pulse beneath my ribcage yet I hear nothing, not even the slightest rhythm.

It frightens me, the quiet of my heart and soul but it's almost…fulfilling, in a way. As though I'm meant for this to happen to me; that what I am getting is truly what I deserve.

My heart suddenly screams into my being, Peeta yelling at the top of his lungs and it shocks me out of my stagnant state of mind. My fist is pressed tightly into my chest, heaving from the suddenness: the organ thumps with a frenzied passion, fast and strong, scared of its own power.

Incredulous, I rise and continue to tread through the hallways, heading back to my room. Entering into it, seeing no one, I flop down onto the mattress, wishing that the pillow could just suffocate me and be done with it, but it doesn't work like that. My head automatically turns and I take in a deep forlorn breath.

The toilet flushes and I swivel my head to look.

Prim holds her nephew close, kissing his cheeks, "You did well this time! Yes, you did!"

He lets out pleased coos, bubbling with joy. When he sees me, his arms reach out and I welcome him into them, holding him close. Prim climbs onto the mattress and sits right next to me, her head on my shoulder. They both smell of lavender and fields. It's aromatic, very nice.

"He's going to be a pro when it comes to using the bathroom,"

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes! I've been teaching him whenever I can. You know, so he can start early,"

I pull her close and kiss her forehead. Hyacinth and Prim begin to play patty-cake on the bed, my son in my lap and Prim near to us both. I try not to think about the whole incident at the shrink's office. There was too much pain back there but it seems to be the only thing going through my head, aside from the beauty of my children.

I don't understand myself at all, my captor less so and my heart weeps because of it.

I dream often and I hate it because too many of these dreams revolve around people I cannot help—Cato included; yet being with him in my dreams are on the edge of malice and tenderness, this sweet blade that makes me bleed joy. There are dreams when he's this black shadow marring the darkness of our past however he doesn't approach—my father and Rue sing lullabies so he's lulled before he even breathes on me; others when he's perfectly normal, as normal as I could ever picture him, at peace, holding our son to his chest and he laughs because he's free from the poison in his life.

The ones where he's realest to me are when he still forces me to have sex with him; but they teeter on frightening, more frightening than they ever were in real life because he's screaming at me in utter emotional torment to rival my physical pain, that he needs me to help him, our cries shattering the earth and fire is roaring fumes that blur our vision and monsters laugh and it always ends with him saying that he's sorry—

"Katniss!"

I'm pulled out of my mind, relieved and broken.

Hyacinth is whimpering beside me, looking at me with expressive skies to rival the world's; Prim has me by the shoulders, her face twisted in terror, anger, and relief.

"What happened?"

"You left us, Katniss—into your mind! What the hell are you thinking?"

I'm shocked at her tenacity, her slender healing fingers digging into my skin. "I'm sorry—"

"You promised me that you would never become like mom, and you're sitting here doing just that. You can't leave us,"

"I'm not going anywhere! I just… I was thinking too hard to remember anything around me."

Prim continues to hold onto me, white stains on flushed cheeks, pink from the emotion. I brush them away and she's suddenly weeping in my arms, holding me tight. She must be so scared, and I never even thought much about it. She's a child, she has moments of dread, but she's always been this light in the cruel world; it isn't fair to her or my son to be the saviors of adults—no child should have that responsibility on their shoulders. There are too many Games where children's welfare has to be considered and weighed for the sake of the elders and it's not fair, not at all, and I begin to cry for taking her for granted.

She's helped me so much and I was grateful, appreciated how much she loves Hyacinth and has been one of the few to remember me but she must be going through pain herself—my absence must have forced her to grow up even faster, stuck with our mother who had continued to abandon her for fantasies that will never happen; my little Primrose, beautiful in the bitter frost and I find her so courageous, I always have—it's miraculous that she never withered.

"I'm sorry," she says to me; voice a breathy low, "I shouldn't be crying when you're in trouble,"

"There's nothing to be sorry about, little Duck,"

This makes her smile sadly but it's genuine, and I hold both her and my son for a long time.

When they fall asleep in my arms, I slowly rise to exit from the room. Walking down the hallway, I make my way to the only place where I can think and be alone.

Cato is as still as ever, a corpse with a heartbeat.

I wonder if he's been moved yet. I look at the clock that hangs above his head. It's a quarter until four. If I recall what I was told right, he was last moved five hours ago.

Anger flares into me. I bet they haven't induced the hypothermia yet.

Not bothering to look around for people to stop me—they never do—I move him from his current position, from side to side, as they told me and I had been observing. I try to be careful, lifting up the dead weight of him, my breathing a little shallower from still having not recovered from my own bodily weaknesses and the shock of how he's lost weight. He's still heavy but dead things usually are. I can't help him with the other issue—which perturbs me anyway—but the least I can do is move him around.

Afterward, I brush hair from his face and sit down next to him, wondering if he's even aware of his surroundings, if he's caught in some catatonic sleep and if he is, what is he dreaming about? Do people in comas even dream? I just imagine him being trapped among the darkness with no escape, no air to breathe, nothing to imagine. It's horrifying. It's too similar to dying away from the sky.

I bury my face in my hands, trying to ignore all around me.

My sniffling catches me off guard and I brush away the tears hurriedly away. The world is dim in this room, even though it's significantly brighter than they normally light it. They don't normally do so, having given up on him from coming back. However, I do request often they put the light on full blast; they rarely do, because I know they don't like my attentiveness to him—but I would think that if the light was burning on his face, searing into his eyes, he'll yell from the intensity of the fake sun. I'm sure I'm the only one who cares about him coming back, and it's not even for me, it's for my son.

No… even if our reasons differ, I want him back for both of us.

I continue to look at him, just wondering. My face moves closer, placed on the edge of his bed, and my fingers slowly climb then latch onto his wrist. Watching him makes me sleepy, and I've done it several times, though I try not to—there's this innate fear that if I sleep near him, being connected the way we are, I'll be trapped with him, then who will care for our son and my sister and those who need me?

I don't know why I'm so attached to him. There are too many moments when I wake up in cold sweats, dreaming of his death and liberation, often at the same time, and they're painful because I feel what he feels. It angers me that he and I are so close, even with all those dire circumstances.

I still tell myself, when no one but Peeta is there, that I hate him, hate him for what he's done to me. Yet, I can't put the whole blame on him anymore. Ruthless he might've been, even psychotic or, at least, a little sadistic before the Games, but the venom is not his fault. He was as much a pawn in Snow's vile plan as anyone else, maybe more so. And, realizing this every single minute of my waking life, my hatred drains itself from me into shredded emotions of forlorn longing and sadness.

The biggest question is if I love him, truly love him.

I'm frightened at both spectrums—the one where I do, and the one where I don't.

His breathing is quieter than the rustle of leaves, just as raspy and wispy.

"Hyacinth's birthday is in month or so,"

Silence.

"A whole year old; I can't believe how big he's gotten!" I say to the dead man, my voice barely audible; dead people like the quiet, "He's pretty tall, well, for a child's standards, I think. Did you know that a child reaches half their adult height by the time they're two? That's what that pediatrician said. At this rate, he'll be so big; taller than you… even Gale…"

He doesn't move at the mention of our son. I flinched when I mentioned Gale, half-hoping and half-fearing that the sound of Gale's name, who Cato objected to so passionately, would make him rise and unleash a father's fury.

But then, I've never spoken to him aloud before.

My eyes remain downward, and I sit back in my seat.

"I, uh… I haven't brought him in to see you. I'm sorry about that. I don't know how he'd respond. He hasn't talked yet. Shocking, I know, but, I'm not much of a talker either. I'm not sure if you were or not either, but he's a healthy little boy.

Personally, I think the doctors are stupid, saying our son is unfit to be around others. He's fine with me, and as far as I know, he was fine with you. We've looked at him physically and he has no damage done to him. He's boisterous and considerate around others he knows, just not strangers. So, it's probably a shyness thing, but no one hears us out on it."

My voice suddenly goes higher in pitch, laughing a little.

"He tried to help out Gale with dinner the other night. It didn't go too well—there was some mush stuff, I think it was baby food. Hyacinth absolutely hates the baby food, but I guess he really didn't want it and, wham! His hand hit the little bowl and it flew pretty high, landing on Gale's head and he was splattered with it. Hyacinth just burst into giggles, all of us did, then Gale wiped himself and he reached for Hyacinth and kissed his cheek—"

I halt. Recalling the memory… how it pained me to witness it.

"…I'm sorry about that, too—that I gave him to my friends. And I didn't tell you. It's just… I really thought and do think it's best. You're here and I'm constantly being seen by doctors for medication. You're probably the last person who needs to sleep, with the venom still in your system. I barely sleep anymore.

It's hard falling asleep and harder, at times, to wake up.

Hyacinth is happy though…! He's…"

I begin to cry, my hands covering my face, unable to look at him right now.

"Our son is really beautiful. He's loved by so many, I know it—I see it every day. Even Haymitch treats him kindly, and I think it's because he could never have children either.

God, Cato… the thing that bothers me most is that we'll never know how to feel about each other."

I finally look at him and he doesn't move.

"The thing is, I don't love you and yet I do.

I don't love you because you remind of everything dark, everything evil—sadism and sociopaths and abuse; but your circumstance, that we weren't even aware of just… it breaks my heart. That one part of you is this, this light that I never knew could be there—that you are innocent at the same time…"

And I remember black nights with no stars, how I would shiver in the depths of nothingness and feel his arm curl about me; even if it was possessive, even if it was to prevent my escape, I still felt secure, and blankets would crawl up my skin, warm pain. How he would sometimes, out of nowhere, bring me an extra bowl of food without my begging him to.

Was he fighting the venom during that time?

This just cracks my last resolve and I weep; I bawl.

My hands tighten and I reach for him.

"The thing is, I don't love you, not that way, and still I can't help but love you that way. I know it's pitiful and you'd hate it, because it's impossible. You've never been really sentimental…

I've never heard of anyone falling in love with their rapist either; never. But… yes, maybe I love you out of pity, maybe I love you and forgive you because I can't do those things for myself—I never could… still, all I know is that I love you. I'll never be sure of the why or the how, but I love you, deeply, because I forgive you. Alright? You hear me, right—I forgive you and I love you…!"

I stare at him through blurred vision and see a child with no real thought to what's going on; I look and there's a resemblance to Hyacinth, hair messy and skin a little sallow compared to the boy's, but I see two precious people in this one man, overshadowing the face of death and despair that I would often look at when it was him and me and insanity. He's evil incarnate only because childhood doesn't exist for us, for his own little heaven that, like it should be, was his mother's womb, and it's gone instantly when we're birthed into this world where death began the moment we breathed.

I have to accept this aspect of my life.

That I love my rapist and protector… disgusting and endearing at the same time…

He's caused me nothing but grief, stolen time and life and joy from me, but he's given them back to me—the time I've lost I've found again, even if it's in the expense of him in this coma; I found life again because I realize that his soul was in torment due to poison, killing me only because he was dying himself and I can forgive him, forgiveness is life. And I found joy in my son, our son.

I don't deserve anything, the way I've been all my life—spoiled and arrogant and bitter toward the world. But I've been given this child and I'll be damned before I lose him.

Even if I have to let him go, I know my only world where everything is gentle is safe.

My hands lock down, clamping onto the unmoving, stiff wrist. He doesn't feel anything, doesn't even know I'm here. I dig my nails into his skin, wishing he'd wake up, wanting him to hear everything and know that he doesn't have to dwell in the darkness anymore. He can come to the light—it's less heavy than the black.

I hate this; I hate that I love him so dearly.

I break in the quiet of the room, falling hard onto my knees, the pain jolting up and making me hiss out as I struggle not to weep.

It's difficult to leave, my heart bleeding all over my sleeves, my body, my soul, staining everything in a dark red. I want to tell him so much, there seems to be so much unsaid.

I can't say anything. Everything seems to final of a sudden.

My hands shake as I grip the handle of the door, walking out and leaving my corpse on the bed.

When I enter my room, Prim and Haymitch are conversing, Hyacinth playing contently on the floor. I can't help but smile a little. A menace, my ass…

Prim turns to me, a smile place then it's immediately removed by a frown. I know she sees the red in my eyes. She approaches me cautiously, extending a hand to me, treating me with compassion, the way she does to all creatures that don't know what to do.

Haymitch comes up to me as well as I take my daughter into my arms. He places a hand on my shoulder.

"Start packing, sweetheart," he tells me softly, "District 12 is clear."

I cry harder and their arms burn beautifully around me, Peeta crying from longing and it only makes me lament further, not knowing if I was leaving my home or finally going home. Either way, nothing is the same; life can be very ungraceful.


	29. Mockingbird

**AN: Thanks to: Guest, sundragons9, Beacher, liljennmartin, revanha, HardlyForeverAfter, Tally Jennifer Youngblood, PurpleFlyingToasters, thepinkmartini, 408934, those who have reviewed/followed before and my anon!**

**Everyone, today's a special day.**

* * *

><p><em>Mockingbird<em>

* * *

><p>I haven't seen rain or sky or sun in so long. It's beautiful.<p>

The wind touches my face, ruffling through my hair and I breathe it in, eyes shut lightly, loving the way the sun dances in front of me, red light and crimson shadows with orange hues, a blurry sunset with closed lids.

Footfalls behind me crunch softly on the ground and I smile a little, thinking of Peeta.

"Katniss!"

I turn to look at my mother, flushed in her face, breathing a little hard. She's not used to the woods and I'm not used to seeing her here either.

"Yes?"

"It's cold out," she says, coming forward with a coat.

"I'm fine," I tell her, touched by the gesture but feeling quite all right.

"Katniss, the sun may be out but it's still chilly. The wind and the distant clouds don't bode well for you,"

I can't help but laugh a little and she frowns at me, the way Prim does sometimes when she's feeling a little petulant. "It's not that bad,"

She sighs, and then places her hand on my shoulder, "I know it's not. I just don't recommend too much exertion at once, Katniss." She pauses then I watch her beam warmly at me and I wonder if I ever really knew she could smile so. "It's exciting to be out, when you've been buried away for so long,"

I nod; it's exactly how I feel. The sky beckons me, making me ache.

I take the proffered coat and, together, my mother and I head back to our new home in the Victor's Village.

With the defeat of Snow and the fact that Coin has stopped bothering the rest of us about electing her as leader, things have quieted and some of the residents of 12 have come back to live here. It's not the same amount of people that it was in the beginning. There were those who liked it in 13, others left to pursue occupations, to venture out into the other districts and learn. Either way, people were finally moving on and doing what they wanted.

All except for…

"Katniss! You're home!" Prim calls from the second story window.

I wave to her and rush into the heated comfort of our new home. It's not exactly what I'm used to, definitely not, but compared to having been confined for months and months in small spaces, it's a tier up from what my body is used to. I requested that we live in a home closest to our old one. I couldn't bare the notion of leaving it alone, even in its dilapidated state, with shingles missing and boards beginning to give way to dust and insects. It's still my home, too.

Hyacinth is playing on the carpet in the living room, banging two blocks together before stacking them. He enjoys the pastime, almost as though he was meant to build things. Mother likes to tell me that; maybe, he'll be an amazing architect. I can see it—he's brilliant with such things. It didn't occur to me until a few weeks ago that it almost seems perfect. District 2 is masonry.

I pick him up when he crawls to me, giving me a kiss on the cheek that leaves me breathless from joy. He waves his newest toy, a plastic hammer, in front of my face and I take it in my hand, making banging motions. He giggles and takes it back.

"When did Gale and Madge come over to drop him off?" I inquire to Prim.

"They came about thirty minutes ago," she informs me, picking up her sewing material. She's picked up this hobby of making things for her nephew. It's sweet of her to do so; especially since I'm a hopeless case with it, even with Cinna's patience. But Prim excels in it. "Hyacinth is really well-behaved about it,"

"You make it sound astonishing, little Duck,"

She lets out a quick laugh, short and sweet, "Well, I only mean that he normally stays with them longer but he takes this in real smoothly."

That's good. I can't stand the idea of him being upset about the routine.

In the beginning, he would cry whenever he left either home, even though Gale and Madge occupy the third house from mine to the left. He was used to either two parents or one and we worried for a long while how we were going to get him accustomed to it. Thankfully, since we all know each other, there was never any difficulty setting up different schedules.

Madge and Gale are very charitable parents. I watch them a lot with him. Gale loves tossing him into the air and catch him, which puts both Madge and I on a terrible edge, which makes him laugh and, inevitably, Hyacinth—he delights in anything fun.

He's gotten used to it and doesn't fuss anymore, back to sweet, docile and silent. Lately, Hyacinth has been spending more time in my home than in theirs. I know why and it both saddens and warms me. I had tried telling them that he really needs to be around them more often than me. They wouldn't hear of it, telling me that, as his mother, I have the right to see him every single day at any possible time, and the longer the better. It shatters me inside that their generosity is endless and I can't do anything to stop it or thank them.

"Honey," my mother says, addressing me, "Cinna is on the phone,"

It's so surreal. How much my mother and I have gotten closer where, before, she was this person who sickened me. I take the phone from her, and she leaves to give me privacy, kissing me cheek.

I don't wipe it away.

"Hello, Cinna,"

"Hello, Katniss," he answers, voice kind as usual, even through the receiver. "How are you?"

"Better than usual," I'm glad it's not a lie. I hate lying to Cinna.

"That's wonderful to hear."

"Yeah, it is,"

He chuckles on the other line; I picture his soft smile, "You've made quite the progress this last month,"

"You think so?"

"Think about it, Katniss."

I do.

And he's right.

We talk for a while, talking about my progress in my therapy sessions. It's not as difficult to open up anymore, but it's still challenging to go. Thankfully, my therapist that I had been assigned to, who spoke to me rationally all that time ago, is still the same one. I learned that his name is Cornelius, but I don't usually address him by first name.

"I'm glad that everything is working out for you with him," Cinna tells me again. The genuineness in his voice hurts me.

"Thank you, Cinna,"

There's a slight pause; then, "How is Cato doing?"

"…still gone,"

"He's not truly gone, Katniss. Not really,"

I'm pained by his sadness for me intermingling with my sadness for this broken boy. "I know. But it feels that way, a lot of the time."

I've been told already about how the brain may not be functioning, but he is still breathing, therefore he's not dead. But whenever I look at him, in the quiet of the room that is located in the small clinic that was built here, my heart aches and my throat chokes on nothing but my tears.

"It'll be difficult for years, my friend. He'll never wake up, and it's something that you'll have to face."

I sniffle, though I make sure not to let my tears fall. "I know."

We're silent for several moments, listening to one another breathe. Cinna hears Hyacinth waddle into the room, and he laughs. He tells me that he'll be coming over in a week to visit us all. We say goodbye with fondness. I hang the phone up then go to my son, picking him up and curling him into my body.

Haymitch and Effie as well, since they're still a part of district 13 and all its functions at the moment. Cinna is, currently, attending to business in the Capitol, trying to muster up a sense of order for the people who never knew what the world is truly like.

Hyacinth remains silent, a soft and pliable little gem. We've yet to hear him speak. We hadn't known what was wrong. He'll be a year old soon; only unintelligible nothings escape his mouth. Finally, we'd taken him to several doctors to find out the cause. He's incredibly healthy but they surmised that the events that happened between me and his sire have caused deep psychological and emotional trauma, hindering him from speaking. It was devastating news to hear. Withal, Gale, Madge and I left the last medical foundation with complete love for him, huddling close around him, with me holding my child, Madge holding us and Gale gathering us all into his embrace. It was a tender moment where I truly felt that my child was loved; and, in a small petty way, that I was, too.

I take my child outside to play in the garden that is our backyard. The vast amount of flora is a delight to him. He loves to frolic in the grass, fiddling with dandelions and daisies that pop sporadically upward. I hear movement behind me—old habits die hard, even if impaired—and I motion for Prim to come out, followed by my mother.

My mother sits next to me, and I feel her fingers in my hair, gently massaging my scalp. I haven't felt this secure with her in years. I can't hate her or be bitter toward her anymore; not after all she's done to try and help me, despite her own longing for death for my father. I know that, on her deathbed, that's where she'll be truly happy, knowing she'll be reunited with our father, whom we all loved for his gentleness and his voice of reason and song.

I can't hate her for wishing that. I understand her, a little better than I used to. My gaze meets hers and I give her a tentative smile, which she gladly reciprocates.

Prim is giggling on my other side, pulling Hyacinth near to her and showing him how to make a crown of laurel and rosemary. And odd combination, yet it's not surprising. She loves the smell together, and I must admit, it tastes excellent in stews.

Hyacinth takes several plants at one time, beginning his attempts. His face furrows into a frown that's so similar to Cato's that my breath hitches in my throat. I don't know if my mother felt it but she stopped stroking me for a moment before continuing, even softer.

I watch them both, listening to the sound of laughter, birdsong, my mother's soft breath and my heartbeat, where Peeta dwells quietly, calm in the storm of my mind.

I go to bed that night with my mind full, too full, overflowing with too many memories. Hyacinth is on rotation, so tonight he's with Gale and Madge, which is good—I don't think I'd be able to take care of him right now with all these terrible nightmares deciding to attack. My thoughts haven't been this rampant in a little over two weeks. It's not unusual to be bombarded with uncomfortable pains that my soul tells me about; that hardly means I like it or don't get jolted from serenity when they appear. I still suffer from night terrors, frequently; however, thankfully, thanks to the medication, my anxiety is lessening a little, bit by bit but day by day and that's really all I can expect.

My father had been in my dream this time, withal, singing a sonorous lament to the heavens, Hyacinth, Cato and Peeta dead at his feet, for my voice was gone and only he could tell the earth my pain. I don't know why I dreamt of such a thing. My nightmares never become easier—I doubt they will—yet this woke me up in a frightening chill, sweat clinging to my form.

I let out a shuddery breath. To calm myself, I look back at how I've made progress this past month and how I don't want to go back. For a month, it's decent enough, and I refuse to allow the past to define my future. With the people who tell me it's my fault out of the way, there's one less problem for me to contend with. But it still bothers me in my mind.

"What about the people who tell you such things?" inquired my therapist.

"It's difficult talking to other people. They just tell me it's my fault with their eyes,"

"Their eyes?"

"You don't need to hear someone talk to know what they think,"

He didn't argue with me on that. He told me that victim blaming is a dilemma that victims face, no matter what the circumstance, there will be people who will blame the victim for what occurred to them. It made no sense to me. Did I seem so unattainable in the flames of my fire that that's what drove Cato to me? That the spark I didn't mean to create sent Snow to wreak havoc on my being? Why do such people exist to make us feel more miserable?

I sigh in the darkness, not wanting to think but that's all I can do; and wait for the dawn to chase away shadows.

The days blur together, where nightmares fester in me until my exhausted mind wishes for slumber, and worries start to prick my skin and heart during the day. I'm more content than before, but not everything is piecing itself together. I go to visit Gale and Madge, to talk with them and to see Hyacinth. At times, I return home distraught with what they and I discuss, but I know they mean well; my son is theirs now too.

I go to see Cato, too, either sitting by his bed, listening to our inhales and exhales, moving him as procedure calls for, or telling him of how everyone is doing. His heart beats faintly, a tiny chime in the room, but I try to ignore it and not dwell on the possibilities that he might finally, literally, die in front of me.

The week passed by quickly, and I'm thankful to have more company to drown out the demons in my soul. Cinna, Haymitch, and Effie are at my front door, rushing in to greet me and the others. They go around and say hello to everyone. I come back downstairs, holding Hyacinth. He beams at the adoring attention.

"Happy birthday, Hyacinth!" Effie cheers aloud first, coming over and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"They sure grow up fast," Haymitch contemplates to no one but we all hear it.

An entire year now… September 7.

My home is lively with all the people I have left here with me. Gale's family comes to see us all, the little ones and his mother having come with us when we all left the underbelly of the suffocating earth. I love watching my son interact with Gale's sibling. He's completely gracious around them, quiet and not misbehaving in the least. Even when Rory gets a little rowdy, all Hyacinth does is purse his lips. That's it. Not the slightest bit violent. I would say that it could be due to all the adults watching but I don't believe it—when it's all of us adults around him and there are children that none of us know he becomes agitated and nervous.

But he's happy, jovial from all the love surrounding him, and I begin to cry.

We cut into the cake, giving him the biggest slice and he shoves his face right into it, licking it with satisfaction. Effie brings out a very advanced camera and snaps a shot. The color in the small screen is impressive, showing every detail on his face.

I laugh with them all, darkness receding.

Gale approaches me as I look out the window at the clear day, having come in to get some water. I look at him and wait. I know where this is going.

"Katniss, remember what you asked us for a while back?"

I nod. He'll tell me no—

"You can take Hyacinth to see his father."

I turn around to him, shocked.

Suddenly, I'm paralyzed, thinking of what Hyacinth might feel or think when he sees his father dead and dying and gone yet breathing on a white uncomfortable bed, with his body thinning out and his life extending into some stretch of space and time that no one can reach; no, it was a bad idea, it was a bad idea to ask this favor of him and Madge, oh God—

"Katniss!" his voice breaks the jumble of my mind, his hands gripping my shoulders, holding me steady. I'm shaking and he leads me to a nearby chair. Madge has entered the room, undoubtedly to see where the conversation went. She hurries to me, rubbing her hand in a circular motion on my back.

"What happened to her?" she demands, looking at Gale.

"It's not my fault!" he snaps.

"It's really not his fault," I tell her quickly, not wanting to see them fight. I know that they do fight, like any couple, but I don't want to see it. "I just… I freaked out."

She sits next to me, face pink from her outburst and her eyes peering into me. She consoles me by holding my hand. "Katniss, I thought… I thought you wanted us to say yes."

"I know, I know. I do… It's just that… I suddenly thought of it not being a good idea. That the last thing Hyacinth needs to see is a man in a coma."

"You've talked to us about it before," she reminds me gently.

"Because you're his parents now; I need your permission to take him to places that you may not agree with."

Madge and Gale glance at one another, long and hard and beautifully, the image burning into me.

"We know that we're his family, Katniss, but you are too." Madge finally lets out, her body close to mine, an arm about my shoulders, "We thought about it, ever since you asked it of us the day we left for district 12."

"You had wanted Hyacinth to see him before we left, just in case Cato wasn't allowed to be removed from underground. We've been thinking about it this whole time, not just when it gets mentioned now and then," Gale responds, scooting closer, "We're thinking that, maybe, this is one of the other steps you have to do to move on. Hyacinth hasn't seen him since he got into a coma. It might be closure for you both."

Hot tears stream down my face, heavy stains as I think about it. Their generosity is never-ending.

"I don't want to ruin our son's day," I murmur, meek from humility.

"He'll know eventually, Catnip."

"It's better sooner than never."

My breathing is still ragged as I rise from the table. I walk outside after making sure that it doesn't appear that I've been crying. I take Hyacinth into my arms, waving off Haymitch good-naturedly when he asks where he's taking the party boy. I only tell them that I won't be long with the guest of honor and head out.

When we're close enough, I lower my child to the ground, so he can better use his walking abilities. He takes to it well, loving to move fast. Surprisingly, he only holds onto my hand the entire time—no tugging, fussing, complaining, nothing.

It's eerie, how in tune he can be with the emotions of others.

The clinic looms when it's close, and even though it's only the size of a decent sized house, I find it oppressive. I calm my heart; calm it for Hyacinth and Peeta, who waits anxiously for me to take the plunge.

The staff is made sure to know who I am. We get in with no trouble.

Picking up my child, I walk into the room, interrupting the nurse there.

"I'm sorry, we can—"

"No, no, don't worry;" she replies kindly, "We just finished moving him."

"Thank you," I tell her, grateful that someone does their job.

When she exits, the room suddenly shrinks upon us, Cato laying there with no expression.

I'm at his bedside. Look down at our son, who only stares with placid intensity.

"It's your father," I gradually inform him.

Hyacinth remains stock-still. His face flickers with emotions that I wish he could proclaim.

"He's caught in a world we can't reach right now. I…" my voice halts, I shove it forward, "I don't know if he'll ever come back. I'm sorry that this happened. But I felt that you needed to know where your father has been. Despite what he's done and what's happened to him… you're both his and mine.

I'm sorry he's not here to watch you grow."

He moves forward, reaching out to touch his father's face. I lower him, Peeta grieving for me, as I try not to—I might drop him if I break.

I know that he knows who this is. He touches the eyes, ears, mouth and nose of his father, patting the cheeks, inspecting every inch, every detail. His fingers move to tug the wires around him. I firmly but gently pry them back. He doesn't attempt again. Just roving the skin…

I pull him back, my tears stinging my eyes.

Then, to my astonishment, he begins to cry with me, because he's tried and failed and tried and failed to wake up this person who we both know and do not understand. We'll never know if he was good or not, if he was ever the kind of person we would like to hope he'd have been if our world was benevolent. We are bound to him through our memories past and the future ones ahead, but we are free to live and choose what we desire.

We cry a little longer in the room, Cato remaining a statue to our silent pleas to give us a hint, to include us with a sign of his return. Our son misses him. I do, too, if only for the fact that my forgiving him allowed me to see him as a victim too, of diseases humanity unleashed.

Together, him holding me and me him, with nothing else to say, we leave the room, my child staring at the lost one with longing. I don't look back.

But I make Hyacinth a promise, whether he can comprehend my words or not, that if he wants, I will take him to see Cato if he wishes to.

"But we have to live for our sakes. The past is a startling place to be—where everything hurts in good ways and bad. The future is unknown. It's scary, but we can do it. Tomorrow might be hard. It probably will be. It might brighter too, though. We won't know unless we go for it."

The forest brush is open for all, thrushes and foliage and warm shadows flittering on the forest floor. I walk into it, not deep, just enough to bring my son into the place where I learned how to live and become who I was. This is my true birthday present to him, the forest. My gift to him is my father's gift to me—life.

"Happy birthday," I whisper to him, setting him down.

He feels the earth, holding it, smelling it and touching trees, looking up through the leaves, rustling a hum only the wind can make it say.

It's peaceful out here. I lay on the ground, staring at the blue sky that I've missed, reminiscing of the people I've lost along the way to find it again: Rue, the girl with the kind heart and the Mockingjay call; my father who compassionately raised me, a Mockingjay in human form; and Peeta, the boy with the bread, who broke his body to feed me, who sacrificed himself to save me, his blood shedding for me—all teaching me how to fly when my wings get broken and I want to fall and never try again.

I know I won't be whole, not like before. We're all broken at an intersection of our lives, crossing dangerous roads and beautiful paths.

Others will remain lost.

It can't cause the rest of us to despair—it's how we fall, even though it's how we remember. Pain teaches horrible lessons; the outcome is entirely up to us.

Optimists are the most uncertain of people, I've decided, because they knew that the future is uncertain. But that's where hope comes in. There has to be a light of hope too. It's how people can move on.

The sun is lowering a little, still an orb of beauty in the endless blue.

Propping myself up, I gaze at my son with fondness, his enthusiasm feeding into me.

He walks quickly to me, a mistake mid-step. I catch him in my arms, laughing with him.

His eyes wander, and I hear the calls of the beautiful birds. I do Rue's whistle, and they repeat it with haunting eloquence.

"Mommy!"

My heart stutters, Peeta crying out with surprised mirth and my mind reels.

He called out to me, my little boy called out to me; he's not looking at me directly, for his finger is pointing upward, where a Mockingjay is perched above, whistling the tune of another child I'll never forget.

"Yes," I hum, fingers in his hair, solid sunrays, "Mommy."

His eyes are bright skies, and I drown in them, as mesmerizing and beckoning as the one overhead.

I sing for him, for ghosts, for sacrifices, for the sky, for me.

No, I'll never be the same, not like before.

I'll wander, I'll stumble, I'll fall; in some memories, I will forever remain caged. But I'll sing to remember there's always a dawn, that there are people to love, and they're worth living for.

I'll always sing.

_End_


	30. Eagle

**AN: LOOK WHO'S BACK. OOH. Hello, darlings! I'm sorry that I can't give more thanks—I know there are people who have added while this story's just been sitting here but my email deletes stuff after a while so I only have emails from the lovelies: Jacqueline Rasky, PetraPan, Esther the Victim, MMEG0183, two guests, wolfshifter1001, keeleymcgregor213, sundragons9, divinebranch, Ziba Mahdi, Orange Pudding, Ivy the Victor, slytherin-nette, Bea0407, BubblyMeTiffany, and anon! **

**So please, like, I dunno PM me or review, something, so I can properly tell you thank you! Love you all!**

**Katniss' The Caged Bird Sings and Cato's The Stone Cries Out are now, officially, at the same point in time. FRIGGING FINALLY…**

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><p><em>Eagle<em>

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><p>I find myself slipping into this world of ease. Something I never thought I could feel again. I'm comfortably nestled in a sea of green, the earth's soft blades tickling my skin. It's beautiful, looking at the sun. I reach out with my left hand, trying to pull the sky closer to me, closer until I'm drowning in the space above. The vast blue is so near, calling to me with a covetous longing, and my fingers drag along the color, swirling clouds around so they'll mist along the canvas, white paint.<p>

I think of Cato, and Peeta, both who have eyes like the sky I love so much.

Both boys are completely different, yet the same; both sacrificed themselves for me; both showed me the depths that people can go, for hope and love.

It's been a long time since I've thought of how much everything has changed, even though I think of it constantly as I try to live with my life.

I had gone to the hospital where Cato sleeps. And, there, I had received good news. The doctors had done surgery on Cato's brain, searching for any clues to the venom, almost immediately after the incident, though there were more important things to be concerned about. I was informed much later than I would have liked. In the part of his brain, where the amygdala is located—the part, I'm told, that controls fear and memories—a small, nearly imperceptible device was shoved precariously inside the grey matter of his mind. The venom would spread from there to other parts of his brain when it was controlled to do so. It truly was well hidden—only the Capitol knows how to hide things so well.

When they pulled it out, however, they noticed that it was charred and black, the orange liquid inside nearly crystalized from an intense sort of heat, they said. A doctor had come forward and allowed me to hold it. I knew why it was like this. The day that Cato had slipped into his coma, falling further behind in life, the electric attacks done to his body had, ironically, saved his mind with the intensity of their energetic power. It had to have been. Those electrocutions… they were strong. And the guards who did it confessed that they even aimed for his head. That they were simply trying to get him down, and I still hate them for it. But if not for that, he might've had this little chip continue to haunt him for the rest of eternity. Instead, lightning took his life, a white serpent with many heads, freeing him from venom with its own deadly one, entrapping him in a story-like state of slumber.

I cried after I buried it in this petite, delicate jewelry box Prim had purchased for me. It's still there.

Afterward, I'd left to cut Cato's hair, trimming it carefully, trying to make it the way it was. I had the feeling he'd want it to look the way it had before he lost himself. His expression is always the same—not lifeless, but certainly not alive either. Even after all this time he appears to be asleep.

But he's not asleep; the condition that he's in is very serious, frightening. I dream at night yelling for him to wake up and he is unresponsive, like in the waking world; at times he'll respond and my heart will leap into my throat only for him to smile at me with the brevity of a solar eclipse only to collapse back into the coma, as though he wants to be there, away from me.

Further down, during a play-date with Gale, Madge, and their son, Cyprus—the oldest of three—I'd requested to see files containing information on the tributes during the time I was in the arena. They are employed in the government now, and they do great work every day to ensure that no one is hurt again; Gale had mentioned it to me before, telling me that what he found was shocking—it surprised everyone—but warned that he would only show it to me when I felt ready. I had waited until I felt I could breathe in the presence of my old self.

With their permission, they'd taken me to see these films stored in compartments, neatly organized and bland.

But it was the contents that piqued my interest. I watched the flicker of screens for a time, delving into the past before me—large, unknown, small and familiar. Everything I both do and do not understand. The past is a daunting enigma. And, there, in the midst of it all, I watched my life unfold between two boys who loved me—two people who I'll never truly know.

I wept quietly as I stared at the monitors, watching myself with Rue, whose smile still continues to warm my heart and her four-note whistle plays in my dreams, flying with the wind. The interaction between Peeta and Cato was something else—a friendship was forming, though I doubt both truly knew how deep it would go. Cato trusted Peeta on a level that, I think, didn't go as far with Clove and the others. He had let in a complete stranger, reaching out with a hand of camaraderie and I turned away in pain as I listened to the sound of Cato wretch out tears after he killed him. After Peeta, the boy with the bread—who, perhaps, I've known all along—sacrificed himself for me. A person who I never knew loved me so much and who I never got a chance to love back.

Peeta might have loved me, since forever, and for that I'm grateful and deeply saddened that I'll never be able to tell him how much I admire his strength—strength I'll never have. Yet he's not the boy I fell for; I learned that he never was.

It's strange, being the outsider to your own past, a world that you forgot you were ever a part of. I looked on into memories, hazy and green, this confusing, painful, wonderfully gentle relationship being expressed before my eyes—where a boy of golden hair and skin, a proud warrior from the inferno, death itself, was told to kill a girl who could save the world that only he was supposed to possess; and he fell in love with her. Slowly and unexpectedly, yet it still happened.

A devil wasn't supposed to fall in love with a being he was meant to destroy. He was going against everything he knew, everything he was taught to do. He, too, had been changing. He would watch her as she braided rough dark hair, eyes softening in a way he'd probably never felt before; control his basic instincts to kill what threatened him. He treated her with compassion as time passed, and they both were saddened by the death of a little girl with a body meant for flight; he'd even turned on old friends for her, the pain evident on his face, in his soul, for betrayal is something he actually did not take lightly. But he did it all for her. In the darkness, where only the moon played witness to midnight stars falling, love formed, in the span of a short period of time—unreal, unbelievable, _unimaginable_—and it coiled around the pair until neither could breathe.

He, the demon, finally, defied a god, for love.

Heaven was not pleased by it.

So gods tortured the two souls relentlessly.

Love really was destructive; to the point it frightened the creators of the world.

Though it's my story, the reason I am who I am today, I don't feel like it is. This is a fantasy that I, somehow, lived for myself—it's too unlike anything I've ever experienced, a story of lore, this cautionary tale of what darkness and light can do together, how it's impossible to distinguish the two sometimes because everyone is capable of both. This is why everything is usually grey, layers and layers of various shades of black and white. The world will always be at war with itself.

I left in a fit of sorrow, breaking. It explained much. Why he would sometimes be kind, why he would sometimes treat me gently in the dark, why he'd tell me he loved me, ask me to say it back—even when he didn't know who he was anymore, he remembered me, fought for me, sired my son, who he loved, too.

I never knew how capable of love he was, how trusting he could be.

In my room, as I cried, I felt my shattered heart stir, and it left again for the boy it forgot, who is, once more, in a dark place far from me. I hated it, still do sometimes when I'm alone and can admit it. It's not fair, though it's funny that I still think life could decide to be just for the rest of us. It never fails to disappoint.

Because I fell in love with Cato.

The emotion happened all over again; a never-ending cycle of give and take, want and need, love and loss, memory and experience…

But, the tragedy is, I've fallen in love with the past. I'm always stuck there, though the future is what calls to me, the past digs into my stomach, pulling me in every direction until I relent that it's important. He is different now—even if he ever wakes up, which is highly unlikely at this point—the doctors have told me it's rare that coma patients awaken—he will not be the same boy I knew in the arena. He'll never wake up. He'll never be the same.

We will die separated.

Snow will get the ending he wanted.

I had gone to my psychiatrist and told them my findings. I told them how confused I felt, how strongly it all came crashing down. Because, had I known all this, I would've fought him off, help him remember who he was and used to be. How could I have forgotten such important aspects of my life, such important people?

Then, eyes sad, my psychiatrist said, "Katniss, may I suggest we check your own mind?"

We did. And we were all surprised that my _own _memories had been tampered with. The doctors of 13 and the ones from the Capitol collaborated, rifled through months, years, lifetimes of colorful and monochrome memories; they found the memory of my father distorted—where I believed our father would hit us; which is why I did not feel too bad when I hit Hyacinth that one time, and solely that one time. It angered me that they dared to trifle with so precious a recalling.

And we found why I believed to have been with Peeta the whole time—he was Cato's replacement. Because they, the Capitol, the real monster, feared I would remember, that I would find a way to bring Cato out of his mind; Peeta was perfect—though not everything about them was the same: both had slightly similar looks—their hair and eyes—and both loved me. It would not be hard. Snow and his minions were convinced—it'll be easy to make me love someone else.

All this time, the boy crying in my heart had been Cato.

He'd been with me all along.

And I felt as though I betrayed him, for not remembering, either; for not searching inside myself harder; for just believing what was easiest—that he was my enemy and nothing more than that. I felt like hurting myself after that. But family and friends refused to see me do that, keeping me together as I simply cracked down and cried violently. I didn't think I could cry anymore at that point—it's an endless drone of soft patters on the earth, the tears.

I asked my family, my friends, "Why did it take so long to find the memories?"

Gale walked over, while Prim pressed her dainty hand into my shoulder, "We searched through these catacombs in the Capitol. It was hidden very well. Snow didn't want us to find them, or anyone to remember."

"How was that possible?"

Haymitch answered, "He didn't want any of us to know. During the time you were gone, we stopped receiving video feed from the Capitol for the Games. But during the time you were seen by us, we saw you with Peeta or Rue; the Gamemakers had edited the footage to make it appear this way—the one with Peeta anyway... They were very efficient in tricking us all,"

"So they just wanted us apart,"

Of a sudden, my mother appeared by my side, smiling sadly, and I see a flash flicker in her eyes—similar to when she lost our father; her husband and friend, "Your love was quite the threat,"

I buried myself in her chest.

None of us are still really certain as to why Snow did all that he did—was he truly a psychopath, bored, fearful of human emotions? There are many theories. Mine is that he simply hated people.

I open my eyes, leaving the reverie; my son peers over my sight, looking down at me, golden shadows.

"Hi, Mama,"

"Hello, sweetie," I say, reaching out to stroke his cheek before kissing it. He grins at me, and I see his father in that smile, radiating life and energy. So different from the way he used to be.

"You ready to go?"

"Yes, little one," he's the only person, aside from Prim, I call affectionately. Unlike most boys his age, where they begin to feel embarrassed by such names, he is surprisingly gracious about it. We make our way down the town. He takes my hand and I squeeze back. My little boy is so wonderful. We still live in District 12, where everything is no longer bleak and black—the color of the coals that would both mark and free us. There's green here now—trees spread along the thicker sidewalk, children playing freely, stepping over cracks and laughter rings out merrily. I never thought I would live to see a day where children can enjoy life without the constant terror of someone tearing it out of their hands before they even begin to truly live.

I wave at a family nearby, still a little wary—I don't believe I'll ever truly master the art of being friendly without feeling socially awkward; it doesn't help that I've always been cautious around others. But I'm getting better, I'm told. I'm trying, day by day. Though it's easier when I have Hyacinth nearby—he encourages me the most and I hate letting him down.

On the way to our destination, we come across Cyprus, Gale and Madge's oldest child and only son. A large grin spans across his face, arm enthusiastically waving. He's always happy to see us and we him. He's a strange but pretty combination of Gale and Madge—he has Gale's black hair, with everything else inherited from his mother, including her more genial attitude.

We're at the hospital and Hyacinth threads his fingers into mine, a comforting gesture that never ceases to calm my heart, palpitations slowing. We put him in a different hospital—the current place we're at—after I, Gale and the others deemed the last one incapable of providing the proper care. The intensive care unit here is up to par with what I requested and Cato doesn't have bedsores anymore, and they give him the nutrients he needs. The staff is a mixture of both friendly and antagonistic, however I do not mind. It's not about personality here—though it can help, it's about ensuring that he is treated with the care he deserves. Thankfully, he wound up not needing a ventilator. He's strong at breathing, for someone in a coma.

I'm still the one who cuts his hair.

Oddly, I don't have much to do with any scruff he grows on the lower half of his face.

I walk in with my son and we stare, together, our hands still laced in dark twinning, for a long time at the body of his father. His muscles have wasted away from disuse. He's so still, a soft, breathing statue.

There were times of terror in this place. There was one time where I feared he would have recurrent pneumonia, and that, in addition, his lungs might scar, losing hold and collapse in on themselves and he would no longer breathe. Nothing happened, though when I was informed that he might have an infection in the bloodstream from a possible urinary tract infection—his bodily waste has to be removed somehow from the bladder—and I nearly passed out from the dread. This one was the closer call—and it's been several of them. With the advancements in medicine—that continue by the day, it seems—we could help him much better. Of course there was still the cost of it, but I was willing to pay anything.

After a time, I was suggested that, maybe, it would be more prudent and merciful to stop the artificial feed tubes.

I nearly strangled the nurse who told me.

Though she'll never know—I did it in my mind. She died. Ha.

I didn't like the thought and didn't want to think of it, dwell on it. However I know that the others, everyone I love, might believe it for the best, too, deep in their hearts. They must hate how I visit him on a daily basis, how I look on at his face and feel all these emotions sweep over me, the powerful tide that they are, dragging me down and up until I am unsure of where I am—remembering all the good and the bad. My mother understands me the most on this.

But I could not do it. Even if it was better that this vegetative state—where one does not respond to light, movement, or sound, or warmth, a living corpse—I could not kill the father of my child. Because, in the foolish part of me, I believed he could still come out of it. Revive himself, even though chances were slim, and we could all, maybe, in some ways, try again.

As I stare at him now, with his eyes closed and wasting away into this shell of his former glory, paler and incompetent and pathetic—something Cato would not like—I don't think I made the right decision. I hate doubting myself, especially in the presence of my son, when I am trying to live and no longer doubt my abilities to make choices… however, I was, undoubtedly, thinking of myself. Cato would have rather died than be seen this way.

But after he fought so hard to help me, to help himself, to simply save lives… I couldn't take his.

I've changed.

It's strange. How much I have grown to come out of my bitterness and resentment, and treat him with a compassion I thought was long gone for people. I pull myself against the wall, lean on it and watch him before looking at my child, who continues to stare at this man with a longing despair and an almost choked nausea on his features.

It's been difficult for him. What children would say to him at school; what he would hear on the street…

It broke my heart when in the middle of the night, he crawled into bed and whispered to me that he dreamt his father hurt me.

My little boy… he grew up fast, too, even though he didn't have to fight for his life, not in this time.

Some children are just doomed to grow up quickly.

"You're awake," I hear him say.

Is he talking to me? I'm about to answer my son when I hear it, faintly, the voice of my captor and protector, "Yes…"

It burns my ears, listening to his voice, imprinting itself into my skull, my memory. It washes over me in this sleep-inducing wave that almost causes me to collapse on the linoleum tiles and go into a comatose state myself. But I lean forward from my position, legs shaking, arms quivering, everything moving except my heart, immobile and caught in the whirlwind of his breath.

I whisper, "Cato…"

"Katniss," And it's his voice. Talking to me, speaking slowly, quietly, in the way the dead do when they've just been awoken and see the ones they love; I cannot believe he can recognize me, after all this time, that his mind had been damaged further by the shocks and caused him amnesia in his absence from the world. He is different from the boy I knew, even though I watched him for years and he hadn't changed. "Shit…"

That one word prompts me from my chair, causing a riveting sensation through my heart and soul I've long forgotten. I grip his hand, helping him to sit up, wincing—I can only imagine the pain that is jolting through his spine. Instinctively, my hand touches his face—the way it automatically moves in concern for those I care about. Even though I shouldn't care, a part of me does and I can't fight that off. Images of him over me, body hot and rough on mine, flit through the surface of my mind, remembering the terror of those endless nights without the sun. But I persist and keep my hand there, because those people aren't us any longer. I'm not the same person—I've learned to forgive. Haven't I?

I realize that I can. And I can't. My heart aches as I stare as this familiar stranger's face, his mouth parted in wonder as he stares into me. It's been too long… "You're here. I can't…"

"Back? Where have I been?"

The tears fall faster, relentless in their drowning of my soul. I feel every pain inside me suddenly burst, coming to life and pushing through the insides of my body, destroying the seams of hard skin and toughened lies that I created to protect myself because, deep down, I am still weak, having not been able to truly speak with the boy who both saved and ruined my life. There's so much left unsaid and undone, a gnawing hurt that he and I should not have to feel anymore.

Our son answers, "You've been gone for a while,"

"…How long?"

I simply hold tight to his hand.

"It's been sixteen years."

I hear a pain in my son's voice that he often hides, and I hate myself for it. I tend to blame myself for whatever hurt he feels. There's nothing I can do but that.

I stare at his face, an astounding revelation sinking into his gaze, his bones, until it makes him weary and he suddenly feel heavier than shadows in my hand. He is both returned yet lost to us, trapped in the passages of time gone and given.

"Cato…"

He turns to look at me, and I stare into unfathomable blue. Eyes that I always thought was Peeta's, holding my gaze in the darkness whenever I felt myself slip and fall into a world where I could only scream. The boy who was with me all along, since the start, too; not just the Boy with the Bread, I knew this boy, too. He raises his hand with some difficulty, a soft gasp escaping me as it touches me, but he manages to keep his palm pressed against the side of my face. I raise my own and hold it there, a warm solid thing. A depraved part of me cries out not to let him touch me, to run away, but it's a part of me I no longer recognize or desire to obey—it's that scared, bitter side that I've fought for years to overcome. And while some days are harder to struggle with than others, I fight it by continuing to hold his hand to me cheek. Because, all along, he was a victim too… my voice breaks.

"I… We… I can't believe you're awake. You're back. You're back,"

For a time, it's all I'm able to say and I don't quite understand the particularities. It's such a painful circumstance, one I never thought I would experience. Truly, none of us expected him to wake up. None of us believed in him returning from the lull of that yawning sleep. It's so unreal, finding him coming back from the dead, because that's what it's like—we watched this boy become a man in death, a perverse form of life itself. You are not supposed to grow old and become someone new on the vestiges of the unknown, with no one beside you.

I hear my son leave. I know my son well enough to know that he's going off to inform the doctors. I know my son well enough to know that he's going to return. Despite what he would tell me, there's an emptiness in his life that has made him somewhat despondent until this shocking new event. My poor son… I long to go after him and hold him.

Suddenly Cato is weeping, long, hard and tragically. He must've realized who that young man is, our boy, at the powerful and frail age of 17, the cusp of adolescence and manhood. I pull him into my shoulder, feeling his body shake beneath me, tight yet broken in my arms as he struggles to breathe. The weight of nearly twenty years comes crashing down atop us until we're left harshly breathing, our throats hoarse from the drenching of our sobs, like our bodies had overflown with sorrow to over the tipping point. Everything floods in and out of me. And I feel and recognize that part of me that I swore to my loved ones I would battle—that bitter, angry and violent piece of my soul that wants to cover the world in black and watch it suffer, the way I have suffered. It comes up, vengeful, breathing smoke, toying with my mind and strength as it taunts me on how easy it would be to kill the man in my arms.

I shove it back into the void—this cruel and devilish creature that is me. I've waited too long without knowing that's what I've been doing: waiting. I've been waiting for atonement; I've been waiting for my son's questions to be answered. I've been waiting for life to truly begin again. This man is a part of me in a way I still never thought possible, tied to me by red strings, and, damn it, he is not going to be denied life any more. Not anymore. Not like I had been. I have been given the opportunity to truly learn what it means to forgive and forget. To not hate, and love as much as humanly possible.

No one is going to take this chance from me; not even myself.

His doctor comes into the room, all aghast from the sudden awakening. He comes forward and checks Cato's vitals. Letting out a shaky breath, he turns to the both of us, ready to inform Cato of all that's happened.

To say it rocks Cato to the core is an understatement. I never saw the light die faster from anyone's eyes until I glance at his blue eyes. Putting his hand against his forehead, we watch him struggle to grasp that sixteen years of life have passed, an eternity he will never be able to reclaim. Opportunities and chances of laughter, closure and healing, gone; for he had been raped mentally, twisted into someone horrible by a person crueler than evil. This darkness has tainted us all, but while we've had time to try and collect ourselves as best we can, he has been far away from us all. He'll be the last one to move on. For him, he'll always be last. He must hate that more than anything, this boy who I know strives to win and achieve goals with speed and accuracy.

For him, he's already lost.

Once the doctor leaves, I stay with him for a time. I know he will not be alright for a long while. I certainly wasn't. I don't push anything upon him, giving him space without leaving, because he needs someone here. There's no one else. I was right. My son did not come back.

When the clock announces the appointed time of visiting hours over, I get up slowly, preparing my departure. He turns to look at me, and though he hides it, there's a hint of panic in those eyes like the sky.

"I'll be back tomorrow, alright?"

He nods, and I feel his gaze on my back until I'm out the door.

The walk toward my home is a quiet and long one, though it's not usually so slow or silent. Upon entering my home, I am bombarded suddenly by Gale, Madge, and the rest of my family and friends. They look at me with anxious eyes, for Hyacinth must've told them of what transpired back at the hospital. They asked questions when I came through the door, but for the past few minutes, they've only stared at me, as though waiting for my reaction. There's nothing to say, at the moment.

I am lost in my thoughts as I go to sit in the kitchen. Pouring some tea in a mug, letting the scent of lavender and chamomile calm me, I recall what happened back at the hospital, trying very hard not to feel the pinpricks of a thousand anxious stares burning into my spine.

A white hand covers my own, and I turn to look at my sister, my daughter, fully grown, beautiful, and terribly sad. "What happened?"

"How much do you know?" I hear them all come closer, surrounding me—whether to trap me in and protect me, could be seen either way—and I watch Prim lick her lips.

"Hyacinth came home…and he only told us that things have changed. We thought…" she flushes, suddenly.

"Yes, Prim?" I prompt, gently.

"We thought he died, at first," Gale speaks for her, always ready to help her when her voice falters.

"At first?" I stare at my best friend, "Hyacinth didn't specify?"

"No, not in the beginning; but after asking him further what this meant—especially since you didn't come back—we wondered and he said, 'everyone's awake.'"

Everyone's awake.

He must mean me. I kill myself in my mind's eye. Have I really looked dead all these years to my son, too? Was I asleep that whole time, as well? Is my son angry and resentful at me…? I'm about to rise when Prim's hand clenches atop mine, gripping it tighter than I've ever felt before. When did she become so strong?

"Katniss," she says, eyes furtively moving, "I have to know. Is he awake?"

"Yes," my voice is a whisper, "he's awake."

A collected breath I didn't know they were holding is suddenly released in a quiet and deadly whoosh. I find myself waiting for their reprimands and warnings to come raining down on me, but nothing is said. My mother comes forward and asks, "Are you hungry, sweetheart?"

I nod my head, realizing I haven't eaten all day. I'm starving, really, something I know does please everyone, since, for quite a few years, my mind insisted on punishing me from the one thing I always fought to have, for myself and those I care about. A willing starvation was unfathomable to us, including myself. I indulge myself, relieved I don't have that problem anymore. I hated hating food.

Everyone is still here, either talking, casually, about either work or nondescript commentary that isn't intrusive. Prim goes to sit in a chair and sew, something she does to soothe her nerves, which I'm sure are wrought. She worries too much about me, though I tell her it's not as bad as the earlier years of my therapy. But she's my sister, so she'll be concerned; the same way I would be if she had been in my position. My mother brews tea, making a mug for herself. Everything is quiet, but beneath the surface, everyone has questions for me, questions I have for myself, as well—beneath the calm, we're all waiting to be turbulent and scream.

They were fine for the years I'd spend going to visit him every day, and my therapist, while he warned me it might be more damaging than good, he was more willing than they were for me to heal in a way I thought could work for myself, giving me my first taste of independence and self-trust I had long been denied. And, in time, it did help me as I stared at that sleeping face, remembering memories, coming to terms with how we're all victims in this, and our true enemy was Snow all along.

There was no need to hate Cato anymore.

But to be near him…holding him, and not push him away… I'm surprised how easier it was than I thought it would be, even in my wildest imaginations of scenarios. It was so _instinctual, _like I'd done it before, with not question at all.

It felt…right.

After a time, as I help put the dishes away, I turn and see my son standing in the hallway, my young champion. Everyone behind me is silent, watching us carefully. It's probably the first sight of Hyacinth they've seen since he came home.

I smile, motioning for him to come forward.

My heart twinges in pain when he hesitates, looking all the more like his father than usual in that one step.

"How are you, honey?" are the words I want to speak, but I keep my mouth shut. I want him to talk, first. Let him say his piece, whatever it may be. He's mute as he joins me by the sink, wordlessly grabbing a towel to dry the plates in the rack. When he's troubled, it takes him a long time to speak, something he picked up from me, and possibly inherited from his father.

"How is he?"

But he's always been more ready to get pain over with.

"He's fine," I answer, "I left him a while ago. The doctor went over his vitals, just to see how his body is doing,"

Behind us, the quiet is infallibly larger—everyone is waiting for more details. For, they knew, Hyacinth and I must be the ones to talk, together, before I could talk to anyone else.

"Hmm, that's good."

"Yes, it is…"

He clears his throat, "So, are you planning to see him again?"

"Yes, he is going to begin rehab as soon as the doctor thinks it's safe for him too,"

"You don't have to see him for a while, then,"

I glance at my son's hands, strong and no longer little, "I'm seeing him tomorrow—"

"What?" he questions.

I stare at my child, his eyes like mine, "I'm seeing him tomorrow."

"Why?"

"He has no one else," I whisper.

"Mom, I know he has no one else, but you don't have to be the one to take care of him,"

"Sweetie, I know you're upset, but—"

"Upset? I'm more than just upset. We don't even know this guy and you're acting like you've known him all your life,"

"I might as well have,"

"But those memories the Capitol pulled out of you, those don't have to mean anything. Do you really think he's going to be the same after sixteen years of being in a coma?"

"He _is _the same person he was sixteen years ago. For him, time hasn't passed—the doctor told us today when he went to see if Cato really was awake,"

My son lets out a bitter humorless laugh that reminds me too much of his father today, "Do you think he really deserves your sympathy?"

"He didn't do anything he wanted to do—he was completely out of his own control,"

"Yes, I know—Tracker Jacker venom is deadly stuff, but what I'm _saying _is that we're done now. He's awake. He can rehabilitate on his own."

"Hyacinth—"

"No, fuck what the doctors said, Mom—you need to take care of yourself!"

"Hyacinth, don't yell at your mother!" Gale interjects.

I look at him, grateful, while my son turns red, ashamed of himself. I gently touch my boy.

"I'm better than I was years ago; you know that," I remind him, "You saw me,"

"Yeah, after years _more _of medicine and therapy and all that shit, come on, Mom, why does he matter? Why _should _he matter?" _Why does he matter to you more than I do?_

That's the look in his face, his eyes, his expression and voice. It pains me, for I knew he didn't always see the point in going but… that questions rings so loudly in his silence that I'm left not breathing.

"Hyacinth," I say, "I want you to tell me, why are you angry?"

"Mom, please—"

"Hyacinth Everdeen, you tell me, right now," I whisper low, for his ears alone, "I want to understand. I want to help you. Why are you so upset about your father being awake?"

He's quiet. He looks away from me, gaze directed at the floor, and I'm in pain, wondering what's troubling my son, who I know is loved by his father more than anything in the world right now.

My son murmurs, "I don't know why…"

"What do you feel?"

"I just feel… really angry. And…" his eyes falter. _I'm a little scared._

"Is this because he wasn't here all this time?"

He lets out a whooshed breath, hand brushing through his hair, struggling for words, "Yes…and no. I just. It's complicated. I know it's not his fault but, I just. I don't know how to connect with someone I've never talked with. I've only watched him sleep."

I remember how, as he got older, he would constantly ask me when Cato would wake up, so he can ask him questions, learn who his father is and spend time with him, because he discovered from us all that what Cato did was not his fault. It was only recently that we defined what had occurred—rape is a delicate horrible thing and to tell him before he understood life a little better, a little deeper on what darkness it could possess, would have destroyed him. He had not taken it well and that, perhaps, is one of the reasons why he suddenly showed an aversion to going—understandable and expected. But, even before this, the questions slowly turned to ifs instead of whens on his waking up; eventually, Hyacinth stopped asking me altogether, having accepted that childhood is leaving and his father will never awaken to see him. My son gave up hoping for a normal childhood and adolescence and, in turn, he must've grown bitter.

"Hyacinth, I'm going to tell you something, and you are free not to believe it."

He looks back up at me, eyes pleading to know, to not know. He's lost as he wonders, not wanting to find anything to love about this man that he, truly, has no idea about. His father is a complete mystery, shrouded by years of absence and unfathomable pain.

Hyacinth knows who his father—the legend, the enigma, the victim of rape and war as much as his mother was—but he doesn't know _who _he is, inside: the boy who laughed at my quips, who stared on in silent focus as I braided my hair; the boy who held me in the night as I mourned another sister, who challenged my thinking, my trusts, my everything and eventually loved me and I him, though I'd no idea I reciprocated it. Not for many, many years.

I reach for my child, hand on his arm, "Your father loves you, very much."

"You don't mean that," he tells me.

"I do. When you left, it hit him that he didn't watch you grow up…he wept, for a long time."

The house is a tomb—no one is even breathing from this revelation. Because, for many of us, even myself, in that dark void I deny exists, we all wanted to believe this man was a monster, because it was easier not to pity him for everything that's happened—we're all still trying to find a person to blame, to find a way out of our confusion and hurt.

"I want you to know that this man isn't a monster. We'd been deceived. He is your father, who loves you—I'm sure he does."

"He didn't tell you himself, though."

"No," I breathe out.

"Then it's not his words."

All my son wants to know is who this dead man is, recently come back to life. But until he talks to him, he'll only have my word, my understanding of who this self-sacrificing individual is that's been hidden from us all by evil. I'm sure, too, my son wants to believe this, but this man is a stranger, who he cannot readily accept with open arms until he has an idea of how his character is.

"Hon," I murmur, "if you want…"

"I'm not going with you to see him."

"You don't have to, if you don't want to. You've done enough, and I'm not forcing you to do anything against your wishes."

"Mom… I know you want me to try and learn more about Cato, but… sixteen years is a long time."

I touch his face, "Hyacinth, I want you to be honest with yourself. When you're ready, you can come to us, to him."

He nods, and then he turns away, leaving me feeling empty and torn between two very similar people, my son who I love dearly and the captive protector who did all he could to save my life.

He stops in the doorway, "I'll talk to him."

I stare at him, surprised. "Yes?"

"When he's ready to come out of the hospital. I won't do anything before then."

That'll give my son some time. He does better when he's not pressured. "Alright, then. When he's ready."

He leaves, an enigma, his father and I reflected in his walk, his features.

"When you're ready…" I whisper to his vanished form.

Gale is by my shoulder and I feel his warm, solid hand give it a gentle squeeze. "He just needs time."

"I know," I put my hand on his, my best friend. I let him hold me as I cry, and I feel my sister rush over. Years of turmoil suddenly return in a sick, hot flood. I fall asleep soon after my friends leave and my mother and sister retreat to their rooms.

I go to bed, exhausted, and collapse. For a while I lay there, silver light dancing upon the walls, drowning me in liquid white, drowning in the air.

Cato is alive.

Alive, lean and grown, his mind a boy's still.

Trapped in time…

On and on our torture goes—it doesn't end.

I dream of my son fighting with Cato, anger and resentment violently streaming from his mouth, Cato the quiet opposite, letting it happen, unlike the boy in my memories, fire burning around us and I grow dizzy as I struggle to identify who is who, flames blurring my sight. Everyone in my mind looks the same, identical mirrors of one another.

I know that, though Cato never harmed Hyacinth, damage had been done the day the guards took him from us in one violent, electrifying moment. I rush to them when a light of blue cascades over us, deafening in its silence, but I realize the sound of it was too much that my ears are damaged by the noise. A cacophony I can't hear escapes into the atmosphere, large hulking masses of rock and cement jutting out of the earth, a personal skeleton revealing the destruction we've inflicted on it all.

I wander, for ages upon ages until destruction blurs together with disillusioned harmony. Red plays with the blue, the smoldering ash flying up to a darkened sky, as birds fall, wingless, bodies mangled from the explosion. My knees hit the ground, scraping skin beneath the fabric of my clothes, and I listen to nothing as the world rages on its hellish masochism. People run past, black figures against the background and my hearing suddenly returns—I catch a siren blaring mournfully on the wind, above us, a warning call.

A footstep trod behind me makes me turn, a looming figure in white slashing through me in one blow yet I don't die instantly. There's nothing I'd rather do, but I'm stuck here, alarmed, decapitated, my head far from my body but I can't scream, I'm dead, and I can only blink for ten horrifying seconds as I'm watching my loved ones become slain like nothing else matters, death is the only thing that matters, living is just a word, a fantasy and I have to accept that because what can a severed woman do—

I scream, the bed beneath me groaning in protest as Prim hushes me.

"Katniss, it was just a nightmare," she whispers soothingly.

"Mom?"

Hyacinth slides before my doorway, rushing in and my heart clenches as he skids to his knees by my bedside, "Mom! What's wrong? Are you alright? What happened? I heard you scream!"

I reach for my son, a stifled sob escaping my throat as I wrap my arms tightly around his neck. Oh my God, my baby…!

"What happened, Aunt Prim?"

"She just woke up with this terrible screaming! It must've been another nightmare,"

His arms tighten around me, "She hasn't had any bad dreams for five months now. How is this happening? The medicine—"

"Katniss, did you take your medicine?"

Oops. I shake my head.

A collected breath escapes them both.

"Mother," Hyacinth chides, "I told you, you can't skip—"

"I didn't skip it," I tell him, looking at his face, "I forgot, honest."

Prim says calmly, "We'll just have to remember tonight, hmm? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, it's alright." It's already somewhat fading. I don't want to remember it in full.

My sister looks at me questioningly, scrunching her face as she recalls something, "But, Katniss, you've sometimes skipped before—not saying that you did last night, but you have, on purpose, in the past, and the dreams never seemed to come; and if they did, not this violently…"

Hyacinth's face twists in a snarl, "Told you he was going to affect her—not even out of the hospital—"

"Cato wasn't the reason I had a terrible dream," I say.

"Was he in your nightmare?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"But nothing; you need to take care of yourself."

"Hyacinth, I know you're worried but I've had nightmares before."

"You haven't had any in a while, though, and suddenly he wakes up, you _do _forget your pills, and you have a nightmare that I haven't heard you scream this bad about since last year, maybe even longer than that."

I fold my arms, staring at my child. In his fury and anxiety, he morphed into his father, gold and powerful and it knocks the breath out of me until I'm able to speak. "Hyacinth, I'm alright."

"You need to be more careful," he reprimands gently, helping me to my feet. Prim walks around the bed to hold me up as well, brushing my cheek tenderly before kissing it.

Hyacinth suddenly looks at the clock, "Oh, crap! I'll be late for school!"

He hurriedly rushes from the room, apologizing for leaving down the hall, "CrapcrapcrapsorryMomIthinkIsteppedonyourfoot!"

I laugh and shout, "You didn't! That was your aunt's foot!"

"Sorry, Aunt Prim!"

She rubs it lightly, "It's alright, just get ready!"

I listen to the faint bustling sounds of my son in his room as my sister turns to me, "Will you be going to work, soon?"

"Yes," I tell her, "I'm teaching my students archery today,"

"How is that going?"

"Not too many people come by unless it's a specific season, but it does well. With the Capitol being non-existent with certain things, a lot of them have changed, I guess. Most of my students are from there."

Prim smiles, "I think that's great news. It really shows how people can change."

"Yeah…"

Cinna had introduced these people from the Capitol that he's known for a long, long time. They weren't as bold and daring as Cinna in their pursuits of bringing down the Capitol—they feared their lives, understandably—but once it went through, they slowly came out of hiding and joined the Rebellion, leaving behind all they knew. Eventually, he had them meet me, after the war. And, not wanting to go back, I taught them how to fend for themselves and they paid me handsomely for it. Even in death, my father provides for me—I wouldn't know all this without him.

At first, it was awkward, finding myself surrounded by the very people who cheered on the deaths of countless children for generations. But these were different people. They were like Cinna. That made it easier to feel more comfortable, forget that I shouldn't fear them and that they wouldn't try, or even want, to imbed my very arrows into the back of my head—my xenophobia was still an issue back then. Eventually, there were more who came—those like Effie: ignorant, innocent of the wrong, completely brainwashed to believe killing was right, even necessary, but not mean-spirited. I found out from Effie that my stylists, while still living in the Capitol, have changed their ways, through much mediation.

I taught them, my group, what my father knew.

They're an eager bunch, coming to me for everything when they have an answer. No one's giving me a hard time for the destruction of their world, and seem pleased to finally be away from a civilization that reigned only from death.

"I'm looking forward to teaching this little girl who just joined," I tell Prim.

"Oh, is she the one with the pink hair?"

"Yes," I answer, "She's so little—I'm surprised her parents let her,"

Prim smiles, patting my shoulder, "Better than before. She's such a sweet little thing,"

"Who?" my son asks from the doorway, combing his hair and gnawing on toast.

"One of the students of my class," I tell him.

He beams, his smile hurting my heart with good pain, "I'm glad you're enjoying your job, Mama. Got to run!" he says.

"Bye!" we call out together. I rush to the window and watch him head off, Cyprus at his side, laughing as they sprint down the street. The girls must've gone off already. Cyprus usually waits for Hyacinth, no matter how late it is. They're attached to the hip, those two.

Prim chuckles softly, "He's so big now,"

"I know… but he's still my little boy."

She's suddenly putting her arm around my shoulders, squeezing them gently, "Mom says that about us,"

I laugh quietly. We head downstairs where my mother is brewing tea, greeting us warmly. She's changed since I came back home sixteen years ago. She's more like the woman I knew before my father died. I'd forgotten how wonderful she really could be. It's perturbing what death and loss can do to people.

She pours us the tea into mugs as she brings out loaves of bread. Eventually, the three of us head out, all into different directions. My mother heads to the left, where the apothecary she runs does surprisingly well, and even she teaches her remedies and potions to those who ask; Prim heads to the right, toward the hospital, where she works and gives her life to others; she had turned to me and said, "I'll check on him for you." I nod, grateful, knowing she's probably worried about me still.

I walk ahead, into the forest, where home is everywhere and I fall into bliss.

Class goes by in a comfortable blur—not too fast or slow. I say hello to them all and the little girl with pink hair, Aris, walks over and holds the bow with enthusiasm. I correct their stances when I must and show them how to properly pull the string, ensure their posture is good enough and, soon, I let them practice with arrows, though the soft-tipped arrows to avoid accidents. Eventually, they'll learn how to hunt with them, if they so choose to.

Birds flutter overhead, their songs and cries mingling together, and a flash of darkness comes across my mind, remembering smoke and decay. I push the nightmare back, walking over to an old man who smiles at me toothily and I show him the proper grip, his hands arthritic despite where he comes from. Everyone here is from the Capitol. I briefly wonder as I show him how to aim. He manages to grasp it and pull it back; I praise him, his expression one of boyish pleasure.

I breathe, smiling. It's a good day.

Once we've completed our lesson, we head home, tired and exhausted. I wave goodbye to Aris, the only child in our midst, and she bounces away.

I turn, walking the path to the hospital. I nod to those who say hello, but I don't steer off course. It feels as though I haven't seen him in the longest time, even though it was only yesterday.

I feel like this every day.

Months pass again before I can even register the space of time. He insisted on starting physical therapy as soon as he could, still impatient, still eager to do what he can. It bothered him to know that so much has happened while he'd been gone and he didn't want to live another minute tethered to that bed. It must feel like a coffin at this point.

They tell me he has a hard time sleeping. He screams. But, in the morning, he doesn't remember, unaware of sounding terrified to begin with. Though they've taken extra measures to give him medicine in his drink and food to help him sleep; he would refuse them if he knew and, not being his doctor, I have to agree.

I come today and I'm told somewhat disturbing but understandable news: he's hurting himself.

I ask how.

"There are bruises all along his legs,"

There's no reason to explain the why. I nod, entering into his room. He doesn't look at me, so I just sit there for a few hours until it's time to leave. I search for Cato's doctor, and upon finding him request that he go outside with me for a little while.

"Katniss, are you sure that's wise?"

"You're his doctor, you tell me."

He ponders. "It would undoubtedly help him, fresh air and watching something new could put him at ease. I'm wondering if the strain of not having been awake for sixteen years will taunt him, though,"

"Cato's much stronger than he looks," I answer, remembering memories I can finally call my own and see, "He just can't remember."

A smile breaks out along his withered face, lines forming, "Alright. He can go with you tomorrow."

The plan is in motion and a nervous bubble of excitement forms in the pit of my stomach, anxious but filled with a new feeling, setting my heart on this fluttering journey.

"How did it go today?" my mother asks at dinner.

"Still difficult but we're getting there,"

I pretend not to notice Gale and Hyacinth exchange glances.

"What's the plan for tomorrow? You don't have work," she inquires again, genuinely interested, supportive.

"I asked the doctor to let him out for the day tomorrow so he can—"

"What?" Gale interjects.

"He needs fresh air and a change of scenery. It'll do him some good."

"What about the rest of us?"

I know what he means, taking my time to respond as I sip my drink, "Nothing bad is going to happen. The community doesn't even really know what he looks like—no one's seen him save for a few of us." He's been practically hidden from the world.

It looks like he's about to say more but he closes his mouth. Finally, "Well, I wish you luck."

I smile and he returns it. Hyacinth's eyes are downcast, but he remains quiet. I worry.

The morning is bright and open, sky an effervescent blue, not a streak of white lacing its canvas.

_Perfect for new beginnings_, my brain remarks, despite myself.

A small feeling of dread does take form as I head out into the world, listening to birdsongs while the sun filters gold. What if he doesn't like it? What if someone gets too nosey and it prompts him into a fit? What if this really was a bad idea? Unfortunately, pessimism still reigns unbound in my personality…

I see him a little ways in the distance, propped in his wheelchair, staring vacantly around. He's accompanied by his nurse and I breathe a little in relief.

"Hello, Katniss!"

I turn at the sound of being called. "Oh, hello," It's one of Gale's coworkers. Though I can't remember his name…

"How are you?"

"Oh, I'm doing alright,"

"That's good to hear," he remarks, "We haven't seen each other in a while,"

I keep up my pace, smiling as genially as possible. He proceeds to continue conversing with me, though I'm not paying much attention to whatever he's saying, my mind preoccupied with the man ahead.

"Katniss, may I ask a question?"

I warily look at him, his face earnest, "Yes?"

"You're a beautiful woman. How come you don't date?"

A laugh escapes me in spite of myself, a little shocked at such a personal question coming from someone I barely know. Though I've known of his intentions for a while, I'd rather not discuss this with him or encourage anything.

"I'm perfectly serious," he tells me.

"It's not something I can take seriously,"

"There's no one in your life you view that way?"

A looming, golden figure flits through my mind, "Not particularly,"

"Your son is old enough to take care of himself, though—so it's not as if your child needs you,"

"You're right," I say, my voice a little clipped, "But pursuing a romantic relationship is not a goal in my life,"

"You're very busy then?"

Feeling a different anxiety enter my chest, very much unlike the nervous excitement of showing Cato my home, I reply, "Yes, I don't have the time."

"I see," he muses, looking thoughtful.

Before he can ask anything more awkward of me—as he looks perfectly fine—I tell him I really must get going.

"Alright then," he replies, smiling, "I'll see you later. Bye, Katniss!"

I let out a sigh and greet the pair before me, "Hi,"

The nurse is one of the sweetest ones, promptly welcoming me with a bright grin, "Hello, Miss Everdeen,"

Cato, however, looks a little solemn, downcast. Is he upset about my being late or maybe he doesn't want to be here? "Who was that?"

His question catches me off guard. "Him? He's just this guy Gale works with."

Cato's head tilts, "Oh."

A flicker of something flashes through the blue of his eyes. Is he…? No, he can't be jealous. Inside, a part of me wants to assuage his concerns but my therapist told me to say nicer things about people I interact with, so, instead, I remark, "Yeah, he's pretty nice,"

It doesn't have the affect I want, nor was it exactly what I wanted to say. His expression falls further, if that's possible. And his gaze wanders over his legs, though he's not aware of it, and my heart clenches as it thinks of his bruises.

Screw it, "He talks a lot though, and he's kind of pushy, now that I think about it."

It's similar to a light coming on, his face brightening beneath the hood and a twinkle returns to his gaze. He's smirking and it's better to see him this way. I wanted him to come out and enjoy something peaceful and different and new; it'd be no good if he was in that sort of state. I try not to think of how another aspect of my mind, quiet and hidden beneath my concern, is pleased by the response, though I've never liked how jealously possessive some men can be with their lovers.

I internally shake my head. No. Not lovers. Well, everyone else I've met is—Gale has been jealous before and Madge in kind so maybe it's not all that uncommon…

Peculiar and strange, I ignore it, getting a little dizzy from the thoughts.

I put my hand on his shoulder in encouragement, "You ready to go around more?"

I try not to think of how that wide grin is bright and open, the way my son would happily smile when he is exceptionally at ease.

We walk along the path, the forest at the ridges of the town, watching for straggling animals that still tend to roam and wander near the vicinity, despite the abundance of animals that have returned in nearly twenty years. The forest has expanded and I've longed to crest unknown ridges, explore the home away from home. Slowly, we enter a decrepit area of 12—we're not districts anymore but old habits and all that—that holds rundown shacks, black, ghastly, and weathered. Ash and debris are swirled from the lightest of breezes, even now, as though these pathetic mounds of wood and earth are one rough gust of wind away from being hurled into the sky, a breath blowing up dust.

I place one hand on it, listening, feeling it creak beneath my palm, "My father used to take Prim and me here. He knew the merchant before he died."

I come out of a stupor I wasn't aware of being in, a fog lifting from my mind. He watches me carefully, quietly, and I blink in slight embarrassment. My heart is beating fast…

A cold washes over me. In the hustle of movement and winding bodies, all heading to where they need to be, I find myself in the midst of where the Reapings were once held. Unknown to me, I've sunk into a sadness I'll always feel, though it's not as strong as before, and not quite for the same reasons. I sigh and turn to find the man behind in this look of complete focus, though his eyes are vacant. We head back to the hospital and he tells me goodbye.

I try not to think of how he breathed my name, a shiver coursing through my spine.

Being at home is silent, no one questions my day. Though from the looks on their faces, most of them assume that it went well and we talk about nothing for a while, enjoying each other's company and only that. I dress for bed and am just about to crawl into the sheets when a knock on my door alerts me.

"Yes?"

Prim peeks, smiling a little, "Hi,"

"Hi, Little Duck," I motion for her to sit on my bed.

She walks in and shuts the door. Then she tiptoes onto my bed and _stares _at me. I cock my head, "Yes?"

"So…?"

"So…?"

"How'd it go?"

"Oh, well, um. It went pretty well."

She gives me a mock frown, "Not your most eloquent sentence, sis,"

"What would you like me to say?"

"Did he enjoy the outing?"

"For the most part,"

"The most part?"

I sigh, "He didn't like the beginning. Or the ending."

Then she lays on her stomach, chin propped up by her hands, and smiles, "Because you left?"

I laugh, "I doubt that."

Prim sniffs delicately, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, "And I doubt your answer,"

Realizing I haven't taken my sleeping medicine yet, I reach over to the counter to take a dose, taking my time to swallow the water and pill. Prim waits all the while. Shoot.

"He has a very open face,"

Her statement catches me off guard, "How do you mean?"

"Like… he's not very good at hiding what's on his mind. When I check on him during my breaks, I just peek through the window in the door and he's the same inside the room as outside—his emotions are everywhere."

"…And what do you think about that?"

"I kind of like it. Too many people tend not to show what they're thinking."

"Thanks, Little Duck."

She laughs, a tinkling chime, "I expect it from_ you_—you're my sister and you've always kind of been like that. Him, it's just… _weird. _All these years without knowing him, so… I guess he's really different from what I pictured."

"How did you see him before?"

She's quiet, staring off into the distance, merely gazing on at the wall; she whispers, "I thought…of him as the monster who took my sister."

I swallow. "And now?"

Then she smiles in this mischievous knowing way that little sisters should never do in front of their older siblings, "Oh, definitely better than that."

And before I can ask what she means, she rolls off my bed, plants a chaste kiss atop my head, and leaves.

Oh, sisters… at least I didn't have to explain that awkward moment when Cato saw my terrible romantic pursuit. The gossip and teasing she'd do to me… I laugh.

I wake up in the morning to no nightmares. It's a work day so I hurriedly get ready for my class. My mother and sister have already left for theirs—they tend to go earlier on certain days so sometimes I expect it. I knock on my son's room, slowly opening it a crack to peek in. His mouth ajar, hands and legs splayed, I chuckled and murmur, "Hyacinth,"

He groans, sitting up to rub one eye, before yawning, "Yeah?"

"I'm going to work, alright?"

He stretches, "I miss when you didn't work on my weekends,"

"I know, honey, but my shifts change with seasons, you know that,"

"Well, okay," he mutters, shifting back under the covers, "Have a good day, Mama,"

"Bye, love,"

Before I know it, the day comes to a closing for me. I wave goodbye to my class, each one cheerful as they head home after a long, eventful day. Aris had given me a hug before running a few yards to where her parents stood, scooping her up into their arms.

I think of Hyacinth and how I can't pick him up like that anymore. It makes me a little sad, even though I know part of life is growing up.

My steps falter in the direction of the hospital, taking me elsewhere. Eventually, my footfalls guide me to a beautiful meadow, laden with flowers of different colors and shapes, the air sweet with the scent of them. Kneeling, I gather several of them, arranging them into a bouquet that I think even my mother would appreciate—she's always had this way with plants.

I try not to run, or skip, to the hospital wing where he is. I greet the receptionist and a few nurses, none objecting to the flowers. They probably think their workplace could use some more color, too. I don't bother to knock, usually used to him being alone.

My sister sits in the chair I tend to occupy, her face breaking into a smile when she sees me.

"Oh, Prim! You're here." I say, pleasantly surprised.

"Yes, I'm on break, and thought I'd check up on him for you." Prim answers me, rising.

"Thank you," I tell my sister, placing an arm tightly around her slender shoulders, grateful for her care.

I turn to the man who watches us with calm. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright," he answers.

"Good, I'm glad," I reply, and it strikes me how odd that is—that, once, I would've given anything to see him in pain. The flowers bounce lightly as I walk forward to place them into the vase, removing the dead ones.

"I should go back to work," Prim announces.

Turning to face her, I ask, "You busy today?"

"Well, yes and no," she says, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling, "It's not usually so chaotic anymore but we did get one terrible case that almost left this man scarred all over—"

"Stop, stop," I insist, holding up my hand so she can heed my warning, "I still don't understand how you don't get nauseous from this job,"

Laughing humorously, she remarks, "Oh, it's not so bad. Although, Mama does agree I have the stronger stomach."

"_Both _of you do."

Beaming, my little sister walks to the door, "Are you still going to be here until I'm done with work?"

"Most likely,"

"Alright, we can head home together," Prim enthusiastically expresses. She likes doing that.

"Sounds good, Little Duck,"

She leaves with a wave, grace and beauty in her moves. She's grown up so much as well. I think back to when she asked how it went with Cato on his outing; how Gale's coworker came up to me with all the jubilant energy of some intrigued swain; how Cato asked who he was... Prim is wrapped up in her work, no different from our mother and myself, and she's shown no interest in changing that either. I try not to think about it, feeling a flush tint my cheeks at what I'm pondering—the thoughts adolescents possess, where they wonder of love and romance, thoughts I never thought of before, never believed I could freely think about. There was never any time to do so, never anyone to think about. I try not to let out a heavy sigh at how ridiculous this is: I'm in my thirties, why am I like this?

"Nice flowers," Cato suddenly says.

"Hmm?" his voice snaps me from my thoughts; something else to think about! "Oh, yes. I went out to the meadow today before coming here, which is why it took a little long. I thought it'd look good in here."

His eyes aren't on me, so breathing is easier; he asks, "Do you go there a lot?"

"Yes, I love it there." I say.

Then blue does turn to me, "What else do you love?"

Even now, with my past as it was and is, no one's bothered to question me on this. It's so sudden, a flash of depth, that I'm left speechless for a moment. "I guess…not much."

"No?"

I tear my gaze away, staring at the flowers, "I suppose I enjoy other things."

"Like what?" he persists, reminding me of the man the other day. But this terrible flitting in my chest is different…

Annoyed with my nonsensical thoughts, I petulantly look at him, "Aren't you tired?"

"Nope," he replies quickly.

His face is earnest, face softening, the way light does in the forest, and something in me stirs, unexplored, forgotten and human, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I thought that's why you'd come here—to give me company." Cato says, reminding me of one reason I do.

I stare at this man, absorbed in an entirely new way, "We…don't actually spend much time together, do we?"

"No, we don't."

I realize he's right. When I'm not working with my students, I am on the sidelines as he struggles to gain motion back into his lower body, watching him drag himself along; or we're here, with his body tired of sleep but exhausted to that point of doing nothing but slumber. At this moment, we are free to do as we please.

A sigh escapes me with a smile, "I love gardening,"

Cato smiles back, "I would suck at it,"

"Not much of a gardener?" I ask, though I'm sure he's not.

"Not at all," he confirms, "Well, for one, we lived in the mountains, so there wasn't much to start with. Whatever my mother tried to make would usually die eventually. It would get pretty cold sometimes."

I can't imagine a life without the forest, without green pastures and the call of wildlife, "That's not good at all—we'll have to go to the forest together so I can show you,"

The promise leaves my mind before I truly understand the implication of what I'm saying. It's been said, however, and he looks so startled and touched I wouldn't take it back, even if I wanted to. That feeling stirs in me again; I squelch it down, "What do you love?"

He takes his time with this question, "I used to read a lot,"

I can't help but laugh. "_You_ _read_?"

Snorting, he cocks his head, glancing at me from the corner of his eye, "I am not as uncultured as all that, Katniss Everdeen,"

"No, of course not," I amend,"So what would you read?"

"I liked reading about science,"

"Oh, yeah?" A subject I've never really been good at, but it's something I never thought he himself would enjoy.

"Yeah, even though lots of us complained about it in school. But I thought it was useful, a little neat, since we didn't get much books, despite what the other districts might've thought,"

A fascination overcomes my thoughts, and I lean in without meaning to, "You didn't?"

"Some of us could afford to learn—I got lucky," he states matter-of-factly; as though he doesn't regret talking about this. Letting me in…

"What was your favorite part about science?" I urge him on.

"Learning anatomy,"

"Ooh, so refined!"

His broad grin flashes teeth, delighted.

"Anything else?"

A bashful expression enters his face; it doesn't dim the smile, "…I had a book about weapons,"

I laugh again, more than I have in a while, "It figures you would. I'm not much into science myself,"

"What do _you_ read?" he asks, interested.

All the books I've managed to read come to mind and I realize that my tastes are not only vastly the antithesis of his but may produce something infinitely more mocking than I have with him. So, carefully, I murmur, "Don't. Laugh."

"Lips are sealed," he assures me, pretending to lock his lips. I try not to notice them.

My chest is full, a guarded secret about to be known, even if it's just to him—especially to him, "…I sometimes read romance novels."

Cato's laughter is the sound of thunder, powerful, fast and awesome.

I blink from my stupor, "I told you not to laugh!"

"But, I just…" he breathes out, gasping, holding his side, "Ugh, Katniss! _Romance_ novels, of all things?"

Crossing my arms, I cock my head away from him, "I can't help it! It's the words." And it's true. It's the only reason I bother to pick them up.

Wiping his eyes, his smirk plays the corner of his lips, "The words? Sheesh, did porn get better while I was out?"

Feeling myself blush, I smack his shoulder, and this only makes his chortle harder, "No, it's not that. It's just… that…" I try to find a way to explain, my hands twisting my braid, "I like the way it's written. It's rather… ornate? I'm not sure how to describe them. They get rather poetic in the books, which is why I read them."

Cato pauses in his chuckles, thinking, "Ah, so you just like how descriptive they are,"

"Yes, I suppose," I say, though he's explained, in essence, the true reason why I read them, "I found I much like those sorts of books,"

"You don't care much for the people in the books, though?"

I agree, thinking of the many idiots that seem to take up the majority of these books; such a sad waste of potential, "Honestly, most of the characters are rather idiotic."

He nods, "Yeah, stupid characters tend to ruin good novels,"

"Unfortunately," I reply, aware of the warmth spreading through my chest at being able to talk to someone about this—someone who can share my interests, break down my thoughts when I'm struggling to comprehend myself; and it's…fun. It's nice, so I admit, "Which is terrible, since I didn't get to read all that much beforehand,"

Though his attention is fully given to me, his moves himself up to a more comfortable position. I'm about to help but relent to allowing him to do it himself. He might not like it. But he manages without aid, pressing his back to the headboard, gazing at me with that same intensity, "Why is that?"

Nonchalantly, I shrug, "There didn't seem to be a purpose for it outside of class, and even then it was only out of necessity. My father taught Prim and me a little more than most children received in their education. I didn't even know I liked to read until a couple of years ago!"

This is another time that's shocked me—I've told him more about my childhood with Prim and my father than I have to anyone else. He doesn't press the matter, simply absorbing it in.

"Reading can be a fun activity; what else do you like to read?"

"Fantasy is pretty enjoyable," I answer readily; much better than romance.

His face suddenly twists, and I blink at the reaction. It's been good so far. "Not a fan of the genre?"

"Not exactly," he slowly answers, "They were interesting as a kid but, at the same time, it felt so unreal."

Chuckling, I reply, "That's why it's a fantasy, Cato."

"Yeah, I get that," he hurriedly says, as though he doesn't want to offend me, "but a lot of the ones I'd read involved a hero going on some grand quest, not because he wanted to, but because of some predestined outcome that absolutely had to happen at some point,"

A part of me clicks together; enraptured by this boy in a man's body, trying to figure him out, in awe of his words and how _opposite _he truly is to the monster I knew in the dark; evil doesn't bother to question morals and decisions of people—it does as it pleases, without question; a curiosity I didn't know I could feel this much makes me speak, "Do you think fate and destiny are the same thing?"

Skies look down, golden hair touched by the sun, as he thinks, trying to answer me as best as I've tried to answer him, a mutual desire to be open, "I don't think so. Fate… it's kind of like saying an event or action had to happen and it didn't matter who tried to fight it—it was going to happen anyway; destiny is saying that someone _had_ to do something and the outcome is whatever that person did,"

"So, fate excludes human involvement while destiny is all dependent on choice," It's my attempt to understand, my eyes never leaving his face; when he briefly glances at me, his gaze is this non-physical caress. I repress a shudder.

"That's how it seems to be, at least when I think about it," his voice is quiet; we really are sharing secrets, even if they're not bad ones, it counts.

"They're often used interchangeably, though," I say.

"No doubt about that," he consents, "but when are words not used interchangeably at some point?"

My mind churns at our vapid range of subjects, a thought process forming, drinking it in, and I haven't realized how starved of topics my being was; so, without care to how silly I sound, an aspect of myself flies free, excited to speak with this person I've known for years yet is discovering for the very first time, "That is very true. It's fascinating, isn't it? How we've come so far technologically but if I or you spoke of all this to someone it'd likely cause a heated debate,"

An ironic twist to his mouth comes, "To be honest, Katniss, we humans can bitch about anything and never be happy,"

Smiling, I lean back in the chair, comfortable in this atmosphere, "Did you always ponder these sorts of questions?"

Cato's eyes hurriedly go down, and red enters his face; I try not to think of why, "Not usually."

At first, I wonder if I, somehow, offended him, but when his gaze returns, drowning in skies, full of life and air and humanity, I find neither of us can look away—willingly or otherwise. My body grows warm, soft, glowing, a little fire flickering inside my breast

Cato inquires, then, "Do you write?"

The question is unexpected, breaking the quiet, so the warmth in my body rushes to my face, "N-No…"

Tentatively, softly, he pokes my shoulder, "Most readers try writing,"

Quietly, I, too, try to remember when I've done so, "I've been working on my father's book about plants; does that count?"

"I think so," he says, approvingly, "in a way, though I meant books completely with words,"

Ah, "Then I haven't."

"You should try it sometime," Cato tells me, and the look on his face is completely of encouragement.

Touched by his enthusiasm, I smile, "I'll keep that in mind,"

He stretches, but he doesn't look away from me, "So, you said you're working on your father's book?"

And, again, the topic of my father is brought up; and, again, talking about him is as easy as breathing; should I be concerned by this? "Yes, when we were little, he'd work on this massive book filled with all sorts of plants and herbs, ranging from their uses to their colors and size. It's very detailed."

"Sounds convoluted," Cato says, his brows furrowing.

"On the contrary, it's simple to understand. It had to be, for Prim and I to understand the context at our young ages,"

"Do you write in it often?"

Nodding, I continue, "When I manage to discover a new plant or remedy, then I do. Honestly, what it needs are illustrations, which I know next to nothing about being able to do,"

"Maybe that can be a hobby of yours to pick up,"

I shove his arm before I can even remind myself not to, "Or _you _can pick up that hobby,"

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, in the same way I did, and we're both smiling at each other, a camaraderie blanketing the two of us in its folds.

"What plant would you like to see most?" I decide to ask, wanting…

"I'd like to see what the namesake of your sister and our son look like,"

"I'd like you to see them too," My confession leaves; I find my gaze on his hand, and I realize how sincere this wish is. My father's book doesn't enter the hands of simply anyone, and he manages to win it over easily, quickly, as though he was meant to… and, as though I was meant to, his palm unfolds, blooming, inviting, and my hand, hovering, lands in the center; his fingers are warm, no longer cold like before.

"Just wondering," he whispers, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand, comforting, "Is your name a plant, too?"

I chuckle softly, "Yes, I'll show you that one, too, though it's not as pretty as theirs, believe me,"

"It does sound kind of weird," he teases.

"Oh, shut up," I reply, at ease with his hand in mine, as though it's filling a gap I never noticed before when it was my hands and mine alone.

"What's your favorite color?" he questions, and his eyes take on that all-too-familiar focus.

I can't help but laugh at how _basic _this inquiry is compared to all we've conversed about, "Such a simple question, Cato—I'm in awe of your wit,"

"Thank you, Miss Everdeen," he emphatically states, tone imperial, "Yet it seems to be one of the most vital questions in anyone's life,"

"Ah, yes," I reply, matching his voice, "It could largely determine who befriends you and who will become a foe,"

"Exactly my point," he points out.

I sigh in pleasure,, "My favorite color is green,"

"That's not surprising," he says with a smile of his own.

"What's yours?" It's only fair I know his.

Surprisingly, his answer is not immediate. He takes his time to answer. "Maybe blue…?"

"Blue?" He's not sure what color he likes? Despite myself, my mind conjures the thought of a boy, familiar in all ways to the one I raised, standing alone, learning how to survive a world full of death, and he can't even bother to know as something as simple as his personal favorite color. It's rather sad…

"Or gray,"

His voice is the softest of wings, truth in every syllable now; he's leaning in, his hand in mine alive with brand new heat as my body is aware of each sensation, each movement, though I'm petrified to the spot—darkness returns with dizzying swiftness, black ink blotching any light, and I remember death, ugly laughter, and dry, rough motions that left my being and soul raw and ravaged…

Fear.

I'm afraid again.

As his other hand caresses my face, beautifully warm, gentle, tangling itself into my braid, fear, anguish and dread rise in overwhelming tides, trying to drag me down, keep my from moving on.

_No._

I'm not letting it win. That dark part of myself—black, frightening, cold, like my pasts, my nightmares—wants to drown me, refuse to give me up to good that's so, so near. I will not be my own worst enemy any longer.

Thus, my mouth brushes his, and his lips are pliable, causing heat to form inside my body, but I only whisper, "Gray's a nice color,"

"Yes, it is," he murmurs back, voice rough with an emotion I can only equate to need.

My voice is still hushed, "Does it remind you of home?"

"Yes," so is his.

"Green reminds me of home, too," I say, allowing him in.

"We found something in common," he replies in this incredible sweet tone, eyes bluer up close; I'm truly in the sky.

"I guess that question really is important," I breathe out, unable to think of anything else.

Cato pulls me in closer, and his mouth parts mine, hot, solid, and brimming with life that I didn't think I'd see come back to his body; my free hand cups his face as my tongue darts in, alive in fire, his pulse fast beneath my skin, and _this _is Cato, the real Cato who fought to protect our son, love me, and his teeth bite into my lower lip, a gasp leaving my already harsh breathing, heart singing that the ghost of him is flesh again, _he's come back to me—_

A knock on the door pulls me back, where I didn't quite jump away but I'm not near him now, and my body cries, wanting him close, where before all it cried for was him to stay far from me.

Prim is at the door, congenial smile in place; _too _innocent… "I'm done with work, Katniss,"

"Oh, good," I reply, wondering why she looks like that. Crap… Standing to my feet, I turn to look at him, his face showing what I feel, "I'll be back to see you tomorrow,"

Cato's expression could rival the sun, his voice beyond happy, and, without success, I attempt to push down the blush.

"Okay," he answers, and he waves to us goodbye.

Prim walks beside me, steps light, "You and he have a good time talking?"

"Uh, yes, it was nice,"

"What'd you talk about?"

"Lots of things,"

"You're coming tomorrow, right?"

"I was planning to," I answer.

Prim hums.

This causes me to glance at her askance, "Why are you smiling like that?"

"When were you going to tell me about Cato's reaction to Marcellus?"

I stop short. "_That's _his name?"

Prim laughs out loud, long and hard.

"Prim!"

"I couldn't help myself," she says, _winking._

She skips ahead and I break out to run after her, yelling for her to come back though I'm grinning wider as recall our conversation, and my father's book enters my mind. I'll bring it to Cato tomorrow, I decide.

I hope he likes it.


	31. Hummingbird

**AN: I will come back and edit proper thanks when my email is working! :3**

**Reason for my absence: my life was hell, not gonna lie. And I was in the beginning stages of carpal tunnel, kinda. Do forgive me. Thanks for your patience! Cato's POV of this chapter will be done later today or tomorrow.**  
><strong>Also, take note: I know this story is rated M so I shouldn't be warning anyone anything, but. –throws citruses-<strong>

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><p><em>Hummingbird<em>

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><p>I wonder if he's sleeping.<p>

Gently, I brush back his hair; it's longer, he says it's all right if I don't cut it anymore. He said to me one day, that it helps him feel different. I obliged without a word, and we smiled together. It's nice to see him do what he wants.

It's been several months, sweat, tears and rage a part of the process: he's found his reflexes are profoundly reduced, his alertness decent but nowhere it had been before, and his psychiatrist prescribes him medication to combat the depression and night-terrors, however, it's chosen carefully so as to not counteract the ones that are to help him regain movement and muscle. His frustration, sullenness and snaps are a mirror to my own.

Cato has always been independent, taking the therapy better but he still becomes so angered by the loss of his mind, body and time that he would upend the vicinity. His temper comes in spurts but it's hard all the same; it always ends with him collapsing in sobs. That's even harder. And despite the improvements that Cato has been accomplishing, there has been no word that my son has come to see his father. That's the hardest part about all this.

The other day, I saw Cato looking outside the window and I had walked over to see what he was looking at. Down below, Hyacinth was walking with the group of friends that sometimes accompanies him places; I noticed that he briefly glanced upward, as though he sensed someone was watching him, and when his eyes met ours, he hurried along the path. He stayed at Gale's and Madge's that day.

I do not blame my son; it has been difficult for all of us. I know that Cato becomes restless whenever the subject of our child crops up, and I assured him that once he leaves the hospital, Hyacinth will come see him.

"It's been hard," Cato told me one day, sweat pouring down his face, resting against the wall with his head between his knees, "I just… Wish this process was going faster,"

"I understand," I said to him, handing him water and soothingly rubbing his back, "it takes time,"

He scoffed, "You sound just like everybody else,"

"It's what everyone would tell me," I replied deftly, "I figured I might as well say it today,"

"Just for the hell of it?"

"Just for the hell of it— say something new,"

He laughed, and managed to hold food down very well; that made the session better.

Everything has been getting better. Despite how our temperaments match in some ways, he's much more determined than I was in the beginning stages of recovery. He talks to his doctors, as though it's natural, undiscouraged, and reads textbooks when he doesn't understand an aspect to his condition. Even on days where he's clearly hell-bent on destroying the entire building, he manages to ask questions through gritted teeth before we retire him to his room and I stay until he falls asleep. Had I been like him, I might've accelerated my own time, but all that matters is our continuity to push forward.

As I brush through his hair, his hand moves up, fingers enclosing themselves around my wrist. He opens his eyes, a brighter blue since he came back from the dead, but there's still not enough light in them to suggest that he is completely whole.

He smiles at me, "Hi Katniss,"

I smile back, "Hi,"

Cato props himself up on his elbows, slowly lifting himself, so that he can swing his legs over the edge of the bed; I don't move forward to help him—he would refuse the help, and I know that this will help him achieve his goal to walk again properly; he is a bit like me that way.

After several minutes, Cato manages, his breathing harsh and his shirt damp from the strain; I walk over to him and dab away the perspiration with a washcloth. He grins softly at me, a quiet thank you. All I am able to do is smile back; it is a feature of my face that I thought I had long forgotten how to do, at least in ease, the way it happens around my loved ones. So it surprises me a little, still, that he manages to pull it out of my heart and lace it on my lips… I can feel his stare on them, tracing my skin with his gaze, but we stay where we are, a bit wary since the last time we were so physically close to kissing. Thinking of that now, a heat spreads inside my chest, with the glow of burning iron, but neither of us have bothered, or even tried, to repeat those actions again.

There are still so many other things to take time with.

Hyacinth flashes through my mind, the spell breaks and we're two separate beings again.

The way everyone wants us to be…

The lessons go through well, and I watch anxiously, as I do, when it comes to his recovery. I want him to succeed. He suddenly falls and I jump, wondering if he's hurt but I keep my distance, even though others don't and he yells at them not to help. I bite my lower lip, continuing to stare.

My fists clench, heart pounding, with Cato pushing forward—his body splitting into two, lines of his skin breaking at the seams, translucent as he digs through flesh, and the boy I knew gasps as he shatters past the barrier of defeat that has covered him since the darkness of our lives; he raises his head at me. The boy and man are now the same.

Cato had walked alone, a completely bright smile stretching along his face.

The enthusiasm of the doctors and nurses are drowned out by the jubilant cheering within my head.

"I did it!"

I'm flying, feet barely touching the earth, and the stares of the people in the room do not matter— let them watch me defy gravity, look on while I embrace him, arms round his neck, ecstatic about his progress.

"You did it!" I say, gazing up at his face.

Briefly aware of his arms about my waist, fingers drifting slowly down the small of my back, Cato lets out a rush of air, smirking, "Well, it was about time for that,"

"I'll say," I murmur, pulling away from him, continuing to stare at the icy blue—his eyes are brighter.

Now he's really not dead.

The progress continues to grow, his efforts in gaining control of his legs and arms accelerating with each triumph, confidence returning as he walks, slowly, a child learning their first steps; then he's walking faster, able to get up from his wheelchair for longer periods of time on his own.

He's so pleased with himself, and I clap for him, the man who is no longer my rapist, or a terrible memory I relive every night: he's as broken as I was—still am in some ways—but he's finding his life in every little motion he makes.

Cato bursts into bloom when he's told that he can finally go on excursion with me into the forest. It's amazing, watching this metamorphosis.

We move at a decent pace—fast enough to keep him encouraged, slow enough to keep him safe. Once we reach the edge of green, we say goodbye to the doctors and nurses; he's alright with me, and I with him.

"Wow," he breathes, eyes wide, "I haven't been in a forest in years!"

"Yes, that tends to happen when life spirals down,"

He doesn't look affronted, smiling, "I know—it didn't help either last time wasn't exactly a vacation,"

I smile, finding his amicable nature a pleasant change of atmosphere. Everything has always been so tense in our lives…it's rather perturbing how easily he can make me grin, even chuckle, about the darkness that's covered our stories. I don't know how he does it. Maybe he doesn't want to think about it, so he makes it lighthearted—another coping mechanism. An odd one, according to therapists, but not wholly uncommon.

The sunshine flitting through the branches, past the green leaves, the chill of winter nothing but a memory in the glow of gold.

Walking along a path only I have tread countless times, I point out all sorts of landmarks: nests of mockingjays and red robins; the trees that leak the sap from their bark that my mother uses in medicines, which he pokes in fascination before turning his nose up at it, making me chuckle; the stream, clear and cool, calls to us and we soak our legs.

Cato sighs, "That feels great."

"Yes, I thought it might," I reply, lounging backwards to soak the sun.

"Have you always known about this place?"

"This area?"

He nods, and I see that his attention is completely given to me. I swallow as I turn to face the shimmering water, unnerved by his gaze but flattered. "Yes, my father showed it to me years ago."

"What was he like?"

My gaze is downcast, smiling, "He was wonderful."

His hand brushes my hair back, fingertips cool from the water—but it's not why I shiver.

"How old were you?"

"I was twelve."

"It must've been hard…" he trails off.

"It was,"

His hand pulls back and we sink into silence, yet it's not uncomfortable. We stare out longer at the scenery, fleshed out in dark green, gold, and gentle brown, the occasional rainbow fading in and out above the water when one of us disturb it, the splashes catching light.

"You… um,"

"Yes?" I turn to him.

"You came through,"

"Barely," I murmur, "I had help."

"Your friends helped you a lot,"

I nod, "I've found that, sometimes, I really can't do much alone,"

He laughs, but his smile is sad, "It's what loners have to learn,"

I smile back, "Eventually,"

We let out sighs, our bodies still; suddenly his hand is back on my face, though more hesitant than before. I find his face leaning in, though we're apart. My body urges me to run; black memories crashing over me, acid rain and smog, and the sound of my own screams haunt me. Somehow everything is thick, black tar binding me to one place, and I can feel myself choking on bitter, terrible memories.

But I remain where I am as he closes the distance.

He stays where he is, waiting for something. There's so much blue…

"Katniss…" his voice wavers, and I know what he's doing—it's all my choice.

Old revulsion spurns itself inside me, a dying fire that suddenly bursts into flame; I drown it out by pulling him in, drinking in the taste of his skin. As we continued to bond over the course of these several months, I found that the rapes come back to twist my life, every time we connect, especially physically, trying to pull both of us under into a state worse than death: the belief that neither of us can be happy, together, with our history.

We are two broken parts.

And that's exactly why I break through the darkness fanning around the edges of my thoughts—because he is the other half to my story, and I am the other half to his.

Futures have no end, but pasts do.

Everything about us is deep, complex and unknown; everything had gone so wrong.

But there's more to life than the bad—there's good moments, cherished moments: Hyacinth learning to walk; Prim managing to get into medical school, Gale and Madge having their first child…

New lives can be made.

As I bring him closer to me, the tarnished memories surface and fade, waters lapping the shores, but, eventually, I manage to block it out and simply focus on all these sensations.

My body is not wholly unaware of them but Cato has always been the only one who has touched me in this manner—none of it good and it kept me from romance more than before.

It's all different. There's warmth settling in my chest, spreading along my abdomen and pooling between my legs. It makes me catch my breath, a moan slipping from his mouth to mine and my heart skips a beat or two. My eyes drift close without noticing for a few minutes. His breath is pleasantly warm, his mouth skimming my jaw and he nibbles the sensitive skin. I shudder, swallowing, from all this contact—

My sharp intake of breath stops us both, staring at each other.

His hand moved beneath my shirt. He draws it back.

"I'm sorry," and his voice is so sincere it hurts.

I cannot tell if it's my being sick of my inner demons or the arousal of my body, but my mouth opens, "It's fine. I want it there."

He looks stunned, jaw slack.

I smirk, and it's definitely leaning more towards arousal, "Unless you don't want to,"

There's a tension in his shoulders, and though his body screams at him to move forward quickly, he takes his time to bring the gap back to a close. He's more considerate than I ever would've thought. How many other kind aspects of his character lurk beneath the surface?

His venom-induced state makes me angry; however the motions of his body manage to purge even those thoughts away. The scent of earth is strong, lying on my back, and I breathe in slowly, quietly, though my heart pounds as his fingers trail along the skin of my stomach; his teeth nip my neck, just as his hand covers my breast and he kneads the nipple with his thumb.

A shock courses through me, my body unused to this sort of ministrations. It may have been abused sexually for a time, but it is very much virgin-like, and a strange affection for myself rises from inside me—I've been disgusted with myself so long, this, too, is surprising, but I have been told by many not to hate myself.

So I don't.

Hatred depletes me from the inside out; I'm tired of exhaustion.

The man above me is one I should hate, and should never forgive, but my arms drift upward and slide along his back. The muscles are atrophied but there's still a rigid definition from those years ago, and his current determination to reclaim back his lost time.

Gold dances off his hair, highlighting its shadows, and his mouth drifts downward, hands pulling up my shirt…

I let him, a different kind of nerve-wracking emotion fluttering in me. Looking at him, I find no disgust forming and I'm thankful for the progress. It's getting easier to distinct the victim and the rapist of the Capitol—they're not the same.

The thought dawns on me, over and over, as his tongue slides along my skin, exploring areas I didn't think could tingle and shiver. Mouth on my breasts, my back arches, liking this new territory of pleasure and his moans vibrate through me.

I don't even catch where one of his hands have gone until there's a strange movement that suddenly causes my body to instantly warm further and a gasp leaves.

Staring up at him, his eyes are severe, concerned, somehow ageless and weary all the same. I simply look at this man who'd been taken from me as a boy, forced to do dark deeds by heartless people.

There's no hate for him at all. There's just sunlight everywhere.

Some primal instinct makes me move my hips; encouraged, his fingers stroke upward and I hiss. White light flitters across my eyelids, seeing red, yet there are other colors. My body seems to glow, sighs leaving my lips in short spurts, long waves. His tongue trails along my abdomen, and I'm in the dark: tempting and quiet, unlike the shadows I know. Harsh sounds rack my form, tight as bowstring, fingers delving deeper where everything is hot and musky, an arrow waiting for release; he breathes into my ear, kissing sensitive skin. He swallows the low moan that erupts from my chest, and everything is too fast, a blur—

A cry leaves me and it's different: painful, raw, yes, but I'm quivering in wakes of pleasure, aftershocks of sincere arousal.

So this is how it's supposed to feel.

Panting hard, I swallow. My skin is flushed, warmth encompassing me: my blood's hot, his body's so close and yellow rays filter through evergreen. It's peaceful, even though my body is awake from such volatile stirrings. Once my breath slows enough, Cato grins at me, "You okay?"

Not able to speak, I nod.

He chuckles, kissing my forehead, "Glad to help,"

My inability to coherently string words together must confuse him, because he tilts his head, concern in his expression, "Did I upset you?"

"No, no!" I quickly say, surprising him. I blush, stammering, gaze down, "It's just— It's all so new…"

When I look back up, I'm shocked by the intensity of blue irises, clairvoyant, open; then he's embracing me tightly, those same hands that shook my body with powerful bursts now cradling my head with utmost care. His scent is overwhelming, earthen and musky, a whiff of lavender and sage aiding in the drowning of my senses.

"Cato?" I murmur, turning my face toward his neck, trailing my hand up to his shoulder.

He still says nothing but tilts our faces to meet, tongue roving indescribably slow, dragging my soul out with a kiss.

When he pulls apart, I'm relieved to be sitting—my knees feel weak.

Caressing my face, he smiles, "Think we've been gone long?"

I turn my head at the sky, observing the sun, "I think so,"

When I turn back to him, he's holding my clothes, "Here,"

Suddenly aware I'm the only one naked, my cheeks burn, and this embarrassment is different too—it carries no shame, no anger. Taking them, my mind forces itself to focus on the act of casually dressing and not wandering to the thought of Cato behind me and that _he _hasn't been satisfied... my heart thrums. I slip on the brassiere, when he clears his throat.

"Yes?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder. To my shock, his face is bright red, a hand scratching the back of his head.

"Um, do you…? Uh,"

When approached by men who do this, there's this frustration that tends to build, unimpressed by their advances, especially when I don't want them. There's none of that here—I want his attention, finding myself flattered by the tinge of crimson on his cheeks. It very much feels like the age we once were when we began to develop romantic intentions. For this moment, we're both sixteen and not wholly damaged.

I smile to ease his tension, "My beauty struck you dumb?" The urge to flirt leaps up before I even notice.

He glances up at me, the red in his face still there but his eyes narrow with an acute zeal; the gaze makes my breath shallow.

Then he slowly, painfully, gathers himself to his feet and walks over, actually _moves _with the fluidity I haven't seen in him since the Games, and my throat closes tightly, heart beating fast at the sight of languid steps and that his eyes still retain storms, bold and crystal blue, a glass cannon.

He's not even a foot away, mouth barely inches from mine and it's sweltering though I wear nearly nothing.

Cato's smirk tilts his lips up, gentle, "I was just gonna ask if I could hook your bra together,"

"Oh!" my mouth is dry, and when I attempt speech it's a croak; I clear my throat, "Um, sure. W-What for?"

He holds up his hands, the gesture slightly placating, "Fine motor skills,"

Fearing I'll sound ridiculous again, I turn; but his hands are on my shoulders, stopping me. We say nothing as his arms move behind me, fingers trailing up the sides of my waist, dipping into the grooves, the small of my back, between my shoulder blades. The sound of the clasp registers faintly. His eyes don't leave mine, and it's strange—this reversal of steps; somehow, my body responds more fiercely to this gesture. It's comfortable, not intrusive.

Slowly, I recall the rest of the clothing and I put them on. Once fully dressed, I turn to him holding up my jacket, opened wide. I shimmy my arms into the sleeves, Cato's hands fluttering over my neck, hands trailing downward to the zipper, pulling it up with calm ease.

"There," he whispers, breath hot in my ear; a shiver travels down my spine.

"Usually taking _off _clothes is supposed to be more of the turn on," I murmur; the words simply escape, my own mind bemused by it.

He laughs good-naturedly in my ear, rumbling in his chest, traveling through fabric and skin to settle into me. My body is hyper-aware of his presence, more than ever, and it wasn't just the…. A blush flares.

His finger strokes my jaw, "Turned you on, huh?"

I nod, rendered, again, speechless. All of this really is new—masturbation as well. I never had the desire to pursue sexual encounters, and it wasn't from the rapes alone, though everyone assumes that's the only case and I let them believe it. I simply never thought about any of it, even before the Games, until Cato came into my life. Even with him awake, I didn't truly believe anything would come of it, despite old feelings dredged to the surface, forgotten memories reclaimed.

And here we are, alone in the woods, where I _willingly _gave him my body to do as he wanted. It strikes me how much I have managed to change, especially towards him. It's the only way to live; change is part of life.

Cato nuzzles into my neck, kissing my cheek, "My prowess struck you dumb?"

Blinking, I snort, grinning, "Only in your wildest dreams,"

"Am I dreaming?" he asks, thoughtfully tapping his chin, "That would explain the docile demeanor,"

I punch him in the shoulder, a guffaw leaving him and his eyes shine with inner light that the sun could never match. He is coming out of his shell, returning.

"Come on, Fire Girl," he tells me. He holds out his hand, the boyish expression returning to his face.

I take it, and his walk keeps up with mine.


End file.
